OUR  BIRD 
COMRADES 


LEANDER  KEYSER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


OUR  BIRD  COMRADES 


AMERICAN  SPARROW-HAWK 

Falco  sparverius 

(Two-thirds  natural  size) 


OUR  BIRD 
COMRADES 


By 

LEANDER  S.  KEYSER 

Author  of  "  Birddom,"    "  In  Bird  Land," 
and  "Birds  of  the  Rockies,"  etc. 


RAND,    McNALLY   &    COMPANY 
Chicago  New  York    ~  London 


Copyright,  1907 
BY  RAND,  MCNALLY  &  Co. 


Chicago 


K'Mt 


To 

ALL  WHO  LOVE  THE  BIRDS  FOR  THEIR 

OWN  SAKES, 

who  de$ire  to  cultivate  comradeship  with  them  in  books 

and  in  the  field,  and  who  will  study  them 

with  the  glass  and  without  the  gun. 


M361891 


BY    WAY    OF    INTRODUCTION 

TO  KNOW  the  birds  intimately,  to  interpret  their 
lives  in  all  their  varied  conditions,  one  must 
get  close  to  them.  For  the  purpose  of  accom- 
plishing this  object  the  author  of  this  volume  has  gone 
to  their  haunts  day  after  day  and  watched  them  per- 
sistently at  not  a  little  cost  of  time,  effort,  and  money. 
While  the  limits  of  a  single  volume  do  not  permit  him 
to  present  'all  of  his  observations,  it  is  hoped  that  those 
here  offered  will  be  satisfactory  as  far  as  they  go,  and 
that  the  reader  will  be  able  to  glean  from  these  pages 
some  new  as  well  as  interesting  facts  relative  to  bird  life. 
The  writer  has  had  another  purpose  in  view  in  pre- 
paring this  book :  He  wishes  to  inspire  others,  especially 
the  young,  to  use  their  eyes  and  ears  in  the  study  of 
the  enchanting  volume  of  Nature.  This  object,  he 
believes,  will  be  best  accomplished  by  furnishing  con- 
crete examples  of  what  may  ,be  achieved  by  earnest 
research.  For  purposes  of  stimulus  an  ounce  of  example 
is  worth  a  pound  of  precept.  If  another  sees  you  and 
me  doing  a  thing  joyfully,  earnestly,  we  need  scarcely 
say  to  him,  "Go  thou  and  do  likewise." 

There  is  not  much  in  the  book  that  is  technical,  yet 
it  aims  at  scientific  accuracy  in  all  of  its  statements,  no 


6  Bird  Comrades 

bird  being  described  whose  status  in  the  avian  system 
has  not  been  determined.  If  strange  exploits  are  some- 
times recited,  the  author  has  simply  to  say  that  he  has 
been  veracious  in  all  of  his  statements,  and  that  all  the 
stories  are  "true  bird  stories."  The  author  modestly 
believes  that  it  will  not  be  found  uninteresting  to  nature 
lovers  in  general. 

Much  of  the  material  included  in  this  volume  has 
previously  appeared  in  various  periodicals,  to  the  pub- 
lishers of  which  the  writer  would  hereby  make  grateful 
acknowledgment  for  their  courtesy  in  waiving  their  copy- 
right privileges.  A  number  of  the  journals  are  given 
due  credit  elsewhere  in  the  book. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE   TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  PREFACE 5 

THE  ILLUSTRATIONS .        .        .  8 

BEGINNING  THE  STUDY .9 

MAKING  NEW  FRIENDS .21 

WILDWOOD  MINSTRELS      . .        . 34 

CHICKADEE  WAYS                ...»      ^      ...  49 

THE  NUTHATCH  FAMILY    ........  57 

A  FEATHERED  PARASITE     ...        0        ....  72 

A  BLUE  CANNIBAL 84 

A  HANDSOME  SCISSORSTAIL        .......  94 

AN  ALPINE  ROSY  FINCH    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  102 

HAPPENINGS  BY  THE  WAY          .......  108 

ODDS  AND  ENDS 124 

WAYSIDE  OBSERVATIONS 139 

TROUBLE  AMONG  THE  BIRDS 153 

A  BIRD'S  EDUCATION          .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  165 

ARE  BIRDS  SINGERS  OR  WHISTLERS? 173 

BIRD  FLIGHT .        .  180 

A  BIRD'S  FOOT .        .  190 

7 


THE  ILL  USTRA  TIONS 


AMERICAN  SPARROW-HAWK     , 

CHIPPING  SPARROW          .         .... 

YELLOW   WARBLER 

CHICKADEE 

NUTHATCH 

BLUE  JAY 

PEWEE,  OR  PHCEBE          . 

SONG  SPARROW       . 

CARDINAL        .  . 

WHITE-EYED  VIREO 

BALTIMORE  ORIOLE 

BOB-WHITE,  OR  QUAIL     .         . 

ROBIN       .         .         . 

MEADOW  LARK       ...... 

BARN  SWALLOW 

SPOTTED  SANDPIPER,  OR  "PEET-WEET" 


PAGE 
Frontispiece 

.  Facing  2 1 

"    34 

49 

"  ,   57 
84 

"    109 

.  '.  ."    124 

"   .140 

i44 

150 

163 

"  l69 
178 
187 


BEGINNING    THE    STUDY 

WHY    should   not   people    ride   natural   history 
hobbies  as  well  as  other  kinds  of  hobbies? 
Almost  all  persons  become  interested  in  some 
special  study,  recreation,  or  pastime,  and  their  choice  is 
not  always  as  profitable  as  the    selection  of  a  .specific 
branch  of  .nature  lore  would  be.  ,  The  writer  confesses 
that  he  would  rather  pursue  a  bright,  lilting  bird  of 
butterfly  than  a  bounding  tennis-ball,  or  football,  and  he 
finds  the  chase  every  whit  as  exciting  and  the  knowl- 
edge  gained   of  more   permanent   value ;    and  he   says 
this    without   in   anywise    intending  to    discountenance 
healthful  games  and  athletic  exercises, ,  but  simply  to 
express  a  preference.     What  could  be  more  fascinating, 
for   instance,    than    for   a   young  person — or  an  older 
person,. either,  for  that  matter  —  to  spend  his  leisure  in 
trying  to  identify  every  bird  in  his  neighborhood?     As 
a  result  of  such  an  attempt  he  would  doubtless  become 
so  interested  in  the.  study  of  his  bird  neighbors  .that  he 
would  resolve  to  learn  all  he  could  about  their  charming 
habits, 

How  may  one  study  the  birds:  intelligently  ?     That  is 
a  question  every  beginner  will  want/to  have  answered. 


io  Bird  Comrades 

When  I  began  my  bird  studies  I  spent  much  valuable 
time  in  simply  trying  to  learn  the  modus  operandi,  and 
while  I  do  not  consider  the  time  thus  spent  entirely 
wasted,  still  I  am  anxious  to  save  my  readers  as  much 
needless  effort  as  possible.  This  I  shall  do  by  showing 
them  how  they  may  begin  at  once  to  form  an  acquaint- 
ance with  the  various  families  and  species  of  birds. 

It  goes  without  saying  that,  to  become  a  successful 
nature  student,  one  must  have  good  eyes,  strong  limbs, 
nimble  feet,  and,  above  all,  an  alert  mind.  People  who 
lack  these  qualities,  especially  the  last,  will  not  be 
likely  to  pursue  the  noble  science  of  ornithology.  The 
stupid  sort  will  prefer  to  drowse  in  the  shade,  and  the 
light-minded  will  care  only  for  the  gay  round  of  social 
pleasures.  Any  bright  and  earnest  person,  however, 
can  in  good  time  become  an  expert  student  of  the  feath- 
ered creation,  provided  only  that  he  feels  a  genuine 
interest  in  such  pursuit.  No  one,  let  it  be  repeated,  can 
study  nature  successfully  in  a  dull,  perfunctory  spirit. 
Here,  as  in  religion,  one  must  have  the  baptism  of  fire,  the 
temper  of  devotion. 

In  the  study  of  birds  it  must  be  admitted  that  men 
and  boys  have  some  advantage  over  their  cousins  of 
the  gentler  sex.  Men  folk  may  ramble  pretty  much 
where  they  please  without  danger,  whereas  the  freedom 
of  women  folk  in  this  respect  is  somewhat  restricted. 
However,  the  engaging  works  of  Mrs.  Olive  Thorne 
Miller,  of  Mrs.  Florence  M.  Bailey,  and  of  many  others 
prove  that  women  are  not  debarred  from  outdoor  studies, 


Beginning  the  Study  n 

and  that  in  some  ways  they  may  even  have  an  advantage 
over  men;  they  are  not  so  ambitious  to  cover  a  wide 
territory,  to  penetrate  to  out-of-the-way  haunts,  or  to 
roll  up  a  long  "list,"  and  they  are  therefore  apt  to  make 
more  intimate  studies  of  the  common  species,  thus  getting 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  bird's  life.  A  man's  observa- 
tions may  embrace  a  wider  range,  and  he  may  add  more 
species  to  the  science  of  ornithology  than  his  sister,  but 
she  will  be  likely  to  discover  facts  about  the  commonest 
fowl  that  he  will  overlook.  The  study  of  birds,  there- 
fore, offers  a  fascinating  field  for  girls  and  women  as  well 
as  for  their  brothers. 

What  tools  are  needed  for  acquiring  bird  lore?  To 
begin  at  the  beginning,  let  me  ask :  Who  would  expect  to 
study  the  plants  and  flowers  without  a  botany?  or  the 
rocks  and  fossils  and  the  general  structure  of  the  earth 
without  a  reliable  work  on  geology?  or  the  planets  and 
stars  without  a  treatise  on  astronomy?  So,  if  you  desire 
a  knowledge  of  ornithology,  you  will  need  what  is  known 
as  a  bird  "key,"  or  "manual,"  or  " handbook" — that  is, 
a  scientific  work  that  shows  how  the  birds  have  been 
classified,  with  accurate  descriptions  of  all  the  families, 
genera,  species,  subspecies,  and  varieties,  together  with 
the  common  and  scientific  names  of  all  the  species  and 
brief  accounts  of  their  ranges  and  general  habits.  When 
you  have  found  a  plant  or  a  flower  that  is  new  to  you, 
what  is  your  first  task  ?  To  "  run  it  down  "  in  a  botanical 
key.  Just  so,  having  found  a  feathered  stranger,  you 
should  note  its  markings,  shape,  size,  etc.,  and  then  "run 


12  .     Bird  Comrades 

it  down"  with  the  aid  of  a  bird  manual.  It  is  much 
better  to  run  a  bird  down  in  this  way  than  to  shoot  it 
down. 

It  is  pertinent  to  say  at  this  time  that  no  one  should 
disparage  scientific  treatises,  or  the  learned  and  pains- 
taking people  who  gather  the  material  for  them  and 
prepare  them.  It  is  quite  the  fashion  nowadays,  when 
a  " popular"  book  on  birds  appears,  for  some  reviewers 
to  compare  it  with  the  so-called  "dry"  scientific  works 
of  the  specialists,  to  the  disparagement  of  the  latter. 
This  is  as  wrong  as  it  is  gratuitous.  The  " popular" 
book,  delightful  as  it  may  be,  could  not  have  been  written, 
or,  if  written,  would  have  had  little  real  value,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  help  obtained  from  the  systematists, 
who,  with  almost  infinite  toil,  have  made  possible  the 
scientific  classification  of  the  numerous  members  of  the 
bird  tribe.  Pioneer  work  in  ornithology,  as  elsewhere, 
may  not  be  very  enchanting  to  most  people,  but  it  is 
necessary.  The  scientific  spirit  should  be  -honored,  not 
disdained,  for  without  it  accuracy  would  be  impossible. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  man  who  plods  with  scientific 
details  should  not  look  with  contempt  upon  the  man  who 
popularizes  the  results  of  technical  study  by  giving  it 
an  attractive  literary  setting.  In  short,  the  scientific 
writer  and  the  "popular"  writer  are  alike  worthy  of 
"honorable  mention,"  for  both  of  them  are  needful  fac- 
tors in  the  dissemination  of  knowledge. 

You  will  want  to  know  where  a  first-rate  bird  manual 
can  be  obtained.  It  affords  me  •  sincere  pleasure  to 


Beginning  the  Study  13 

recommend  two  works  of  the  kind  that  cover  the  entire 
avian  field  for  residents  of  the  United  States.  They  are 
new,  up-to-date,  and  convenient.  To  those  who  live 
east  of  the  Mississippi  River  I  would  commend  Mr. 
Frank  M.  Chapman's  "Handbook  of  Birds  of  Eastern 
North  America."  The  best  praise  I  can  bestow  upon 
this  book  is  to  assure  you  that  it  will  give  entire  satis- 
faction as  a  handbook.  Happily  another  manual  (Mrs. 
Florence  M.  Bailey's  "Handbook  of  Birds  of  the  Westeni 
United  States")  was  recently  issued,  treating  the  avi- 
fauna west  of  the  Mississippi  just  as  thoroughly  as  Mr. 
Chapman's  work  deals  with  that  of  the  eastern  part  of 
our  country.  Both  books  contain  lavish  illustrations 
by  expert  and  accurate  bird  artists — a  feature  that  is 
invaluable  in  the  work  of  identification.  They  possess 
a  further  advantage  in  not  being  too  large  to  be  carried 
with  you  in  your  excursions  afield,  enabling  you  to  .name 
each  feathered  stranger  on  the  spot. 

Should  you  desire  a  single  volume  that  will  help  you 
to  identify  any  bird  you  may  meet  on  our  continent,  I 
would  urge  you  to  secure  the  latest  revised  edition  of 
Dr.  Elliott  Coues's  "Key  to  North  American  Birds." 
It  is  fully  illustrated,  thoroughly  scientific  and  up-to- 
date  in 'the  matter  of  classification,  and  yet  not  too 
technical  for  practical  use.  This  book  is  too  bulky  to 
be  carried  with  you  to  the  haunts  of  the  birds,  but  it 
may  be  used  in  this  way:  Note  carefully  the  markings 
and  other  peculiarities  of  each  new  bird  you  meet ;  then, 
as  soon  as  you  return  home,  while  all  the  circumstances 


14  Bird  Comrades 

are  fresh  in  your  memory,  consult  your  "key"  and  make 
sure,  if  possible,  of  the  identity  of  all  your  "  finds." 

Mr.  Robert  Ridgway,  one  of  the  foremost  ornitholo- 
gists of  our  country,  is  now  preparing  a  great  work 
which  is  worthy  of  the  highest  praise.  It  is  entitled 
"The  Birds  of  North  and  Middle  America,"  and  is  the 
most  comprehensive  work  yet  undertaken  relative  to  the 
avifauna  of  the  entire  North  American  Continent,  giving 
a  large  amount  of  scientific  data  respecting  all  the  species. 
After  its  completion  it  will  enable  the  student  to  identify 
every  bird  known  to  science  from  the  Isthmus  of  Panama 
to  the  far  North  and  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific. 
At  this  writing  two  volumes  have  been  issued.  They 
are  published  under  government  auspices  by  the  United 
States  National  Museum  at  Washington,  D.  C.,  and  may 
be  procured  perhaps  without  cost  by  writing  to  the 
secretary  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution.  Of  this  the 
writer  cannot  be  absolutely  sure,  as  the  supply  of  printed 
copies  may  be  limited. 

Nothing  more  need  be  said  about  bird  manuals,  save  to 
warn  you  against  spending  your  money  for  books  which 
describe  only  a  part  of  the  avifauna  of  a  given  region 
and  yet  are  advertised  as  serviceable  for  the  identifi- 
cation of  all  birds.  Unless  you  have  plenty  of  money 
to  spend,  when  you  buy  a  manual  buy  one  that  is  scien- 
tifically accurate  and  complete.  Nothing  is  more  trying 
to  the  student  of  birds,  whether  tyro  or  expert,  than  to 
encounter  a  new  bird  and  then  fail  to  find  it  described 
or  even  mentioned  in  the  book  that  has  been  foisted  upon 


Beginning  the  Study  15 

him  as  a  manual.  In  saying  this  I  do  not  mean  to  dis- 
courage the  purchase  of  the  charming  popular  books 
written  in  a  literary  vein  and  describing  personal  observa- 
tions on  bird  life,  such  as  the  works  of  John  Burroughs, 
Bradford  Torrey,  Olive  Thorne  Miller,  and  many  others. 
These  books,  however,  are  not  advertised  as  handbooks, 
and  thus  no  one  is  deceived  in  buying  them. 

Even  with  the  best  manual  in  hand,  you  must  not 
expect  to  be  able  to  identify  every  new  bird  at  the  first 
attempt,  for  some  species  are  either  exceedingly  shy  or 
obscurely  marked,  or  probably  both,  while  quite  a  num- 
ber are  so  much  alike  in  markings  and  habits  that  it  is 
hard  to  distinguish  them  from  one  another.  A  few  birds 
remained  enigmas  to  me  for  a  number  of  years,  in  spite 
of  the  help  of  the  field  glass.  At  intervals  for  several 
months  you  will  often  catch  provoking  glimpses  of  some 
nymph-like  bird  before  you  succeed  in  determining  its 
true  place  in  the  avian  system.  But  patience  and  per- 
sistence will  some  day  overcome  the  most  stubborn  diffi- 
culties. 

Since  the  foregoing  references  to  leading  bird  manuals 
were  written,  a  new  work,  which  is  unique  in  plan,  has 
been  published.  I  refer  to  the  book  entitled  "Color  Key 
to  North  American  Birds";  text  by  Frank  M.  Chapman, 
pictures  by  Chester  A.  Reed.  The  range  of  the  volume 
is  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  ocean  and  from  the 
southern  boundary  of  the  United  States  to  the  far  north. 
It  contains  a  brief  description  of  every  species  and  sub- 
species within  the  limits  named;  a  key  to  all  the  Orders 

2 


2  6  Bird  Comrades 

and  Families,  with  the  common  and  scientific  names 
of  all  the  birds;  an  introduction  to  every  chief  division; 
and  last,  and  highly  important,  colored  pictures  of  all 
the  species  and  many  of  the  geographical  varieties. 
What  more  can  the  bird  student  desire  for  purposes  of 
identification?  While  the  other  manuals  give  fuller 
descriptions  of  habits,  songs,  etc.,  and  need  not,  there- 
fore, be  superseded  by  this  volume,  yet  frankness  forces 
us  to  say  that  if  the  student,  and  especially  the  beginner, 
cannot  afford  to  buy  more  than  one  bird  book,  the 
Chapman-Reed  ' 'Color  Key"  is  the  one  to  get.  It  is  of  a 
convenient  size  for  carrying  afield,  so  that  a  feathered 
stranger  can  be  identified  on  the  spot.  It  can  be  used 
anywhere  in  the  United  States,  in  British  America,  and 
Alaska.  Think  of  that,  fellow  bird-lovers! 

A  good  field  glass  is  indispensable  to  successful  bird 
study,  especially  if  you  desire  to  name  all  the  birds 
without  killing  any,  as  I  hope  you  do.  Perhaps  the 
older  ornithologists,  like  Audubon  and  Wilson,  did  not 
use  helps  of  this  kind,  but  they  used  guns,  and  conse- 
quently had  to  study  dead  birds,  while  you  and  I  want 
to  study  living  ones.  Their  killing  of  birds  was,  indeed, 
necessary,  for  purposes  of  scientific  classification;  but 
now  that  such  classifying  has,  for  the  most  part,  been 
attained,  the  gun 'has  largely  gone  out  of  vogue,  and  the 
glass  has  taken  its  place.  Let  your  alliterative  motto 
be:  With  the  glass,  not  the  gun. 

I  would  advise  you  not  to  buy  a  flashily  colored  glass, 
for  it  will  dazzle  your  eyes  on  sunshiny  days.  Be  sure  to 


Beginning  the  Study  17 

get  one  that  is  easily  focused,  as  you  must  be  quick  in 
studying  such  shy  creatures  as  the  birds.  At  first  the 
glass  may  strain  and  tire  your  eyes,  but  that  difficulty 
will  pass  in  a  short  time.  Expertness  will  soon  be  won 
in  the  use  of  a  binocular,  so  that  you  will  be  able,  almost 
instantly,  to  get  the  desired  object  within  its  field,  even 
though  the  object  be  quite  tiny.  An  opera  glass  is  a 
great  deal  better  than  no  glass  at  all;  a  field  glass  is 
better  still,  and  a  Bausch  &  Lomb  binocular  of  six  to 
eight  magnifying  power  is  the  best  of  all,  being  almost 
equal  to  having  the  bird  in  hand.  The  observer  must 
lose  as  little  time  as  possible  in  sighting  a  shy  bird,  or  it 
may  escape  him  altogether. 

A  book-bag  or  haversack,  strapped  around  your 
shoulders,  will  also  be  a  convenience.  In  it  you  can 
stow  your  bird  manual,  and  a  luncheon  in  case  you 
expect  to  spend  the  whole  day  in  the  open,  for  a  hungry 
rambler  is  not  likely  to  be  an  acute  observer.  A  note- 
book and  a  lead  pencil,  carried  in  handy  pockets,  should 
not  be  forgotten.  Donning  an  old  suit  of  clothes,  you 
can  roam  where  you  will,  threading  your  way  through 
brier  and  bush,  wading  the  bog  or  the  shallow  stream, 
dropping  upon  your  knees,  even  flinging  yourself  upon 
the  ground,  to  spy  upon  a  wary  bird  flitting  about  in 
the  copse. 

In  almost  all  kinds  of  weather  I  wear  rubber  boots  in 
my  excursions  to  the  haunts  of  the  birds.  The  observer 
can  never  tell  when  he  may  have  to  wade  a  stream  or 
tramp  through  a  boggy  marsh.  In  wet  and  cold  weather 


i8  Bird  Comrades 

the  need  of  rubber  boots  can  be  seen  readily,  but  even 
in  dry  and  warm  weather  they  have  one  decided  advan- 
tage— they  do  not  become  slippery  on  the  soles  as  one 
tramps  through  the  leaf-strewn  woods  or  the  grassy 
fields.  Every  pedestrian  knows  that  sole-leather  is  apt 
to  become  as  smooth  as  glass,  making  it  difficult  to 
retain  one's  footing.  On  the  other  hand,  rubber  seems 
to  cling  to  the  ground,  no  matter  how  much  it  is  worn. 
The  only  objection  to  rubbers  is  that  they  are  uncom- 
fortably warm  in  hot  weather ;  but  that  difficulty  can  be 
overcome  by  frequently  plunging  into  a  cool  stream  and 
standing  there  for  several  minutes. 

Let  me  caution  you,  however,  not  to  purchase  a  heavy 
pair  of  rubber  boots.  Insist  on  having  a  light  pair  or 
none  at  all.  A  good  pair  of  rubber  boots  are  a  real 
luxury,  for  with  them  you  may  tramp  about  in  all  kinds 
of  damp  and  boggy  places  without  fear  of  wetting  your 
feet,  though  it  goes  without  saying  .that  you  must  be 
careful  not  to  wade  in  over  the  tops  of  your  footgear. 

Of  great  assistance  to  the  pedestrian  is  a  light  cane. 
In  climbing  Pikes  Peak  one  evening  after  dark,  I  doubt 
whether  I  should  have  been  able  to  gain  the  summit 
had  it  not  been  for  my  tough  little  wild-cherry  cane, 
upon  which  I  could  lean  when  almost  exhausted,  which 
supported  my  faltering  steps,  and  which  happily  never 
grew  weary.  Two  years  later  it  helped  me  to  scale  a 
number  of  snow-capped  mountains,  among  them  Grays 
Peak  and  Peak  Number  Eight  of  the  Ten  Mile  Range. 
Indeed,  my  little  cane  was  of  so  much  service  to  me  that 


Beginning  the  Study  19 

I  came  to  look  upon  it  as  a  personal  friend  that  cared 
almost  as  much  for  me  as  I  did  for  it.  It  pushed  aside 
thorny  bushes  and  nettlesome  weeds  when  I  was  looking 
for  nests,  thus  saving  my  hands  many  a  painful  wound. 
And  more  than  one  serpent,  including  the  rattlesnake, 
has  had  his  head  crushed  or  his  spine  broken  by  sturdy 
blows  from  my  little  wild-cherry  cane.  I  should  add 
that  it  had  a  hooked  handle,  so  that  I  could  hang  it  on 
the  strap  of  my  haversack  when  I  needed  both  hands. 

In  the  beginning  of  your  observations  you  will  find  the 
work  of  identifying  the  birds  a  rare  and  exciting  pleasure ; 
then,  after  you  have  named  all  the  species  in  your  neigh- 
borhood, it  will  be  no  less  delightful  to  study  their  inter- 
esting ways,  or  to  extend  your  researches  to  other  fields. 
And  if  at  any  time  you  observe  some  odd  bits  of  bird 
behavior  which  you  think  will  be  news  to  the  many 
bird  lovers  the  world  over,  why  should  you  not  report 
them  to  one  of  the  bird  magazines,  so  that  others  may 
share  the  pleasures  of  your  discoveries?  An  admirer  of 
feathered  folk  should  not  be  selfish ;  indeed,  I  do  not  see 
how  he  can  be. 

It  simply  remains  to  be  said  that  this  volume  is  an 
illustration  of  the  method  of  bird  study  just  indicated. 
In  the  first  place,  I  shall  show,  in  a  few  chapters,  how 
the  student  goes  about  his  work  of  identifying  species 
and  making  new  bird  friends;  then  will  follow  a  number 
of  monographs  indicating  how  much  may  be  learned 
about  the  life  histories  of  several  interesting  species; 
next  there  will  be  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  incidents 


20  Bird  Comrades 

of  bird  life,  showing  how  many  odds  and  ends  the  indus- 
trious and  observing  rambler  may  gather  by  the  way; 
and,  finally,  the  book  will  conclude  with  four  somewhat 
technical  chapters  on  bird  education,  bird  music,  bird 
flight,  and  bird  feet,  which  I  hope  will  prove  interesting 
as  well  as  instructive. 


CHIPPING  SPARROW 

Spizella  socialis 

TFour-fifths  natural  size) 


MAKING   NEW  FRIENDS 


A  FRIEND  once  told  me  of  a  letter  he  had  received 
from  a  correspondent  who  is  an  enthusiastic 
botanist.  The  writer,  having  just  returned 
from  an  excursion  in  which  he  found  a  flower  that  was 
new  to  him,  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  of  exultation  by 
exclaiming,  " Oh,  the  joy!  the  joy!"  A  like  experience 
comes  to  the  bird  lover  when  he  makes  a  new  acquaint- 
ance in  the  feathered  domain,  no  matter  how  many  other 
observers  may  have  seen  and  studied  the  species.  "A 
bird  that  is  new  to  me  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a 
new  bird,"  is  his  self-complacent  mode  of  reasoning, 
though  it  may  not  be  distinguished  for  its  logic. 

After  studying  the  birds  in  Ohio  and  Indiana  for  a 
good  many  years,  I  moved  to  eastern  Kansas,  where  I 
lived  for  five  and  a  half  years.  My  rambles  were  by  no 
means  confined  to  the  wooded  bluffs  and  hollows  that 
bound  the  Missouri  River  on  the  west,  for  I  also  made 
excursions  out  upon  the  prairies  of  Kansas,  over  into  the 
state  of  Missouri,  and  down  into  Oklahoma ;  and  every- 
where I  carried  my  field  glass  with  me  and  kept  both 
eyes  intent  on  the  birds.  You  would  expect  an  enthu- 
siast in  the  pursuit  of  bird  lore  to  do  nothing  else.  What 

21 


22  Bird  Comrades 

a  pleasure  it  was  to  ramble  about  in  new  fields  and  make, 
acquaintance  with  new  bird  friends!  There  is  not  a 
very  marked  difference  between  the  avifauna  of  eastern 
Kansas  and  Ohio,  and  yet  there  are  some  birds  found  in 
the  former  state  that  are  not  met  with  in  the  latter  - 
enough  to  keep  the  observer  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectancy 
for  several  months. 

One  of  my  new  acquaintances  was  a  little  bird  which 
is  known  as  the  clay-colored  sparrow.  It  belongs  to  the 
same  genus  (Spizella)  as  the  chipping  and  field  sparrows 
which  are  so  well  known  in  the  East ;  but  it  has  an  individ- 
uality of  its  own,  and  is  not  merely  a  copy.  I  stumbled 
upon  it  while  pursuing  my  explorations  near  Peabody, 
far  out  on  the  level  prairie,  where  the  species  was  abun- 
dant during  the  season  of  migration.  As  I  was  saunter- 
ing along  a  road,  a  peculiar  croaking  little  trill  greeted 
me  from  the  hedge,  sounding  very  much  like  the  rasping 
call  of  certain  kinds  of  grasshoppers  when  they  are  sud- 
denly startled  and  take  to  wing.  But  no  insect  had  ever 
emitted  quite  such  a  sound  in  my  hearing.  This  could 
not  be  an  insect.  It  was  worth  while  to  look  and  make 
sure  of  the  identity  of  the  odd  musician. 

After  some  difficulty,  I  fixed  my  glass  upon  a  number 
of  little  sparrows  about  the  size  of  the  chippies.  They 
bore  a  close  resemblance  to  that  species  too,  save  that 
the  crown-piece  and  the  general  tone  of  the  back  were 
decidedly  darker,  while  the  under  parts  were  a  good  deal 
whiter.  The  clear,  ash-colored  cervical  interval  between 
the  crown  and  the  back  and  the  distinct  brown  loral  and 


Making  New  Friends  23 

auricular  space  told  me  plainly  who  the  little  charmers 
were.  Not  at  the  moment,  however,  for  the  birds  were 
new  to  me,  and  I  had  to  wait  until  I  could  consult  my 
manual  before  I  was  able  to  decide  that  they  were  the 
clay-colored  sparrows. 

Their  song  is  an  odd  vocal  performance  —  a  low, 
croaking  trill,  preceded  by  a  few  longer  notes,  all  delivered 
in  the  same  key.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  contralto  solo  divided 
into  brief  stanzas,  and  easily  might  be  mistaken  for  the 
grating  buzz  of  an  insect,  especially  if  heard  at  a  distance 
of  a  few  rods.  It  possesses  little  or  no  musical  quality, 
and  is  perhaps  the  most  curious  style  of  bird  minstrelsy 
with  which  I  am  acquainted.  In  comparison  the  chip- 
pie's trill  sounds  loud  and  clear  and  bell-like,  with  a 
distinctly  melodious  quality  of  tone.  The  song  of  the 
little  clay-colored  sparrow  is  also  marked  by  a  kind  of 
drawl,  giving  one  the  impression  that  the  bird  is  just  a 
little  too  lazy  to  exert  himself;  yet  when  you  get  him 
in  the  field  of  your  glass  and  see  him  throw  back  his  head, 
expand  his  throat  and  chest,  and  open  his  mandibles  as 
wide  as  he  can,  you  quickly  decide  that  he  is  not  the 
apathetic  creature  his  desultory  song  would  lead  you  to 
infer.  It  really  is  laughable,  and  almost  pathetic,  too, 
to  note  how  much  energy  he  expends  in  the  production 
of  his  poor  little  aria. 

Indeed,  not  in  the  least  sluggish  is  the  blood  flowing 
in  the  veins  of  Spizella  pallida,  for  he  is  a  vivacious  little 
body,  flitting  about  actively  in  the  hedges  and  bushes, 
and  sometimes  mounting  into  the  trees,  chanting  his 


24  Bird  Comrades 

little  alto  strain  all  the  while,  as  if  his  life  depended 
upon  it.  He  is  one  of  the  comparatively  few  birds  who 
is  lavish  of  his  song  in  migration. 

Unlike  the  familiar  chippie,  he  does  not  usually  find 
a  perch  in  plain  sight,  from  which  to  rehearse  his  song, 
but  keeps  himself  well  hidden  in  the  bushes  or  trees, 
darting  into  a  hiding  place  as  soon  as  he  thinks  himself 
discovered.  The  shy  little  imp  prefers  to  put  a  screen 
of  foliage  or  twigs  between  himself  and  the  observer. 
Might  his  motto  be,  "  Little  birds  should  be  heard  and 
not  seen" ?  I  had  quite  a  time  making  sure  of  him,  but, 
as  a  pleasant  compensation,  when  his  identity  was  once 
settled,  I  could  not  well  have  mistaken  him  for  another 
species,  for  he  is  a  bird  of  real  distinction. 

My  study  of  the  clay-colored  sparrows  was  restricted 
to  their  habits  in  migration,  at  which  time  they  move 
about  in  more  or  less  compact  little  flocks,  gathering 
seeds  and  chanting  their  monotonous  trills.  While  I 
first  found  these  sparrows  near  Peabody,  they  were  also 
fairly  common,  a  few  days  later,  in  northeastern  Kansas, 
about  a  mile  back  from  the  Missouri  River,  where  their 
low  alto  strains  formed  a  kind  of  gray  background  for 
the  high-pitched  trills  of  the  Harris  sparrows  and  the 
loud  pipings  of  the  cardinals.  Quaint  as  our  little  con- 
tralto's solos  are,  they  have  a  distinct  fascination  for  me, 
and  now  that  I  no  longer  live  in  the  Sunflower  state,  I 
miss  them  sorely  when  the  springtime  comes. 

These  sparrows  do  not,  I  believe,  breed  in  Kansas,  but 
are  known  to  establish  their  households  in  the  northern 


Making  New  Friends  25 

part  of  Illinois,  central  and  northern  Iowa,  the  Red 
River  region  in  Minnesota,  the  country  drained  by  the 
upper  Missouri  River  and  its  tributaries,  Manitoba  as 
far  north  as  the  Saskatchewan  River,  and  the  plains  and 
bases  of  the  foothills  of  eastern  Colorado.  Their  nests 
are  built  on  the  ground  or  in  low  bushes,  and  from  three 
to  five  eggs,  of  a  greenish-rblue  tint,  flecked  with  cinna- 
mon-brown, are  deposited.  They  spend  the  winters  in 
southern  Texas  and  still  farther  south.  Only  "  acci- 
dentally," as  the  word  goes,  are  they  known  in  the 
eastern  part  of  the  United  States,  and  for  that  reason 
little  has  yet  been  written  about  them  in  popular  books 
on  birds.  The  time  will  come,  no  doubt,  when  they 
will  have  a  well-recognized  place  in  bird  literature,  just 
as  the  chippie,  the  vesper  sparrow,  and  the  song  sparrow 
have  to-day. 

In  bird  study  it  is  never  safe  to  take  too  much  for 
granted.  One  must  be  constantly  on  the  alert,  and,  more 
than  that,  one  must  be  able  to  make  fine  distinctions 
with  both  the  ear  and  the  eye.  Here  is  a  case  in  point. 
For  many  days,  while  strolling  about  in  quest  of  bird 
lore,  I  heard  a  quaint  little  song  in  the  bushy  clumps, 
and  that,  too,  in  some  of  the  most  out-of-the-way  places. 
"It  is  nothing  but  the  house  wren,"  I  muttered  to 
myself,  I  know  not  how  often.  "  It  isn't  worth  while  to 
look  for  it  when  there  are  new  birds  to  be  found.  Still, 
it's  singular,"  I  continued,  "that  the  house  wren  should 
dwell  in  such  secluded  places.  It  would  seem  that  his 
name  is  a  misnomer — at  least,  in  a  good  many  instances." 


26  Bird  Comrades 

Several  times  I  stopped  to  listen  more  intently  to  the 
rolling  ditty.  "  There's  something  odd  about  that  wren's 
song,"  I  repeated.  "Does  the  house  wren  always  close 
its  song  with  the  rising  inflection,  as  if  it  were  asking  a 
question?" 

Then  I  would  perhaps  make  a  half-hearted  attempt  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  lyrist,  but  it  kept  itself  well  hidden 
in  the  bushes,  and  I  desisted,  begrudging  the  time  taken 
from  my  quest  for  feathered  rarities.  But  one  day, 
while  strolling  along  the  banks  of  a  small  stream,  I  again 
heard  the  labored  ditty,  and  the  next  moment  a  small 
bird  darted  into  full  view,  calling  and  scolding  in  an 
agitated  way,  and,'  while  I  watched  it  capering  about,  it 
broke  into  the  very  song  to  which  for  several  weeks  I 
had  been  listening  so  carelessly.  Why,  it  was  not  a 
wren  after  all!  It  did  not  look  like  a  wren,  nor  act  like 
one,  but,  rather,  its  form  and  conduct  were  like  those  of 
a  vireo ;  and  a  vireo  it  was.  My  bird  manual  soon  settled 
that  point.  And  what  was  the  name  of  the  little  stranger 
who  had  introduced  himself  in  so  informal  a  way?  It 
was  the  Bell  vireo,  an  entirely  new  species  to  me. 

It  is  not  an  eastern  species;  it  ranges  from  Illinois  to 
the  base  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  In  Kansas  it  is  a 
summer  resident,  hanging  its  little  basket  of  a  nest  on 
the  twigs  of  bushes  or  low  trees,  after  the  regular  vireo 
fashion.  It  was  my  good  fortune  to  find  a  nest  on  a 
copsy  hilltop,  where  the  bird's  madrigals  and  lullabies 
mingled  with  those  of  the  yellow-breasted  chats,  the 
indigo  buntings,  the  blue-gray  gnat  catchers,  and  the 


Making  New  Friends  27 

Kentucky  warblers.  To  this  day  I  feel  a  longing  to 
visit  the  secluded  spot  where  I  held  so  many  pleasant 
interviews  with  these  birds. 

Another  Kansas  bird  that  was  new  to  my  eyes  and 
that  afforded  me  much  delight  was  the  Harris  sparrow— 
a  distinctively  western  species,  not  known,  or  at  least 
very  rarely,  east  of  the  Mississippi  River.  He  is  truly  a 
fine  bird,  a  little  larger  than  the  fox  sparrow,  neatly  clad, 
his  breast  prettily  decorated  with  a  brooch  of  black 
spots  held  in  place  by  a  slender  necklace  of  the  same 
color,  while  his  throat  and  forehead  are  bordered  with 
black.  His  rump  and'  upper  tail  coverts  are  a  delicate 
shade  of  grayish  brown,  by  which  he  may  be  readily 
distinguished  from  the  fox  sparrow,  whose  rear  parts  are 
reddish  brown.  His  beak,  feet,  and  legs  are  of  a  pinkish 
tint,  making  him  look  quite  trig  and  dressy.  The  latest 
of  the  spring  arrivals  were  the  most  highly  colored,  hav- 
ing the  whole  chin,  throat,  and  top  of  the  head  a  glossy, 
uniform  black. 

It  would  appear  that  the  most  matured  individuals 
migrate  farthest  south  in  winter.  That,  at  least,  would 
be  the  natural  conclusion,  judging  from  the  fact  that 
they  arrive  latest  in  the  spring  in  our  central  latitudes. 
In  the  southern  part  of  Kansas  the  Harris  sparrows  are 
said  to  be  common  winter  sojourners,  but  in  the  north- 
eastern part  of  the  state  they  disappeared  in  November 
or  December,  and  did  not  return  until  the  middle  of 
February,  or  later  if  the  weather  happened  to  be  severe. 
From  the  time  of  their  vernal  arrival  they  were  to  be 


28  Bird  Comrades 

seen  in  every  ramble  until  they  took  flight  for  their 
breeding  haunts  in  the  North.  One  spring  some  of  them 
were  still  loitering  in  Kansas  on  the  eleventh  of  May, 
and  were  singing  blithely,  no  doubt  waiting  for  the  win- 
ter cold  of  their  summer  homes  to  be  well  past  before 
they  ventured  farther  toward  the  arctic  lands. 

In  general,  the  habits  of  these  birds  are  much  like 
those  of  the  white-throated  sparrows,  which  are  much 
more  common  in  the  East  than  in  the  West.  The  Harris 
sparrows  are  fond  of  copses  and  hedges,  and  especially 
of  brush  heaps  in  new  grounds.  So  marked,  indeed,  is 
their  penchant  for  brush  heaps  that  I  almost  wish  one 
might  re-christen  them  "  brush-heap  sparrows."  Many 
a  time  I  have  played  a  little  trick  on  the  unsuspecting 
birds  by  stealing  up  to  a  brush  pile  and  giving  it  a  sudden 
blow  with  my  cane;  then  a  whole  covey  of  them  would 
dash  pellmell  from  their  covert  with  loud  chirps  of  pro- 
test against  such  wantonness. 

Sometimes  they  are  found  in  the  depths  of  the  woods, 
providing  there  is  thick  underbrush  in  which  they  can 
conceal  themselves.  I  seldom  found  them  in  open  places 
either  in  the  woods  or  fields.  Yet,  shy  as  they  are,  they 
have  a  fondness  for  the  dense  hedges  along  the  highways, 
flitting  and  chirping  as  the  traveler  passes  by. 

Being  wary  birds,  they  do  not  wander  far  from  their 
hiding  places,  into  which  they  precipitate  themselves  at 
the  approach  of  a  supposed  danger.  It  was  quite  a  while 
before  I  could  get  a  clear  view  of  their  breasts,  for,  with 
provoking  persistence,  they  kept  their  tails  turned 


Making  New  Friends  29 

toward  me.  However,  when  once  you  really  become 
acquainted  with  a  bird,  it  seems  to  lose  part  of  its  shy- 
ness, and  so  after  a  time  I  often  had  the  Harris  sparrows 
in  plain  view.  One  of  their  characteristic  habits  was  to 
stand  at  full  height  on  the  top  of  a  brush  heap,  with  tail 
lifted,  crest  feathers  erect,  and  eyes  wide  open,  the  picture 
of  wild  alertness.  In  such  poses  they  are  indeed  hand- 
some birds. 

It  was  March  5,  1898,  when  I  heard  the  first  song  of 
this  sparrow,  and  even  then  it  was  only  a  fragment  of  a 
song.  But,  the  weather  remaining  pleasant,  the  six* 
teenth  of  the  month  brought  a  fine  concert.  The  bird's 
song  was  a  surprise  to  me.  It  began  with  a  prolonged 
run  so  much  like  the  opening  tremolo  of  the  white- 
throated  sparrow  that  it  might  have  led  the  most  expert 
ornithologist  astray.  The  fact  is,  I  looked  around  for 
quite  a  while  in  search  of  a  white-throat,  thinking  him 
still  a  little  out  of  tune,  and  therefore  unable  to  finish  his 
chanson;  and  I  was  undeceived  only  by  the  singing  of 
several  Harris  sparrows  that  with  unusual  boldness  had 
perched  in  plain  sight.  The  resemblance  ceased,  however, 
with  the  opening  notes,  for  the  western  bird  did  not  add 
the  sweet,  rhythmic  triad  of  his  white-throated  cousin, 
the  closing  part  of  his  song  being  only  a  somewhat 
labored  trill  of  no  distinct  character,  and  not  fulfilling 
the  promise  of  his  initial  strain. 

In  the  concerts  of  these  birds — and  frequently  many 
of  them  would  be  trilling  at  the  same  time — they  sang  in 
several  different  keys,  some  of  them  striking  the  treble 


30  Bird  Comrades 

and  others  dropping  almost  to  the  alto.  Occasionally 
two  birds  in  different  parts  of  a  field  would  sing  respon- 
sively,  one  trill  running  very  high  in  the  scale,  the  other 
an  octave  lower.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  the  responsive 
exercise  was  engaged  in  intentionally. 

The  Harris  sparrow  has  another  song  which  is  quite 
unlike  his  melodious  trill.  It  is  delivered  in  a  loud  voice 
of  little  musical  quality,  and  the  notes  are  pounded  out 
in  a  percussive  style,  like  the  explosion  in  quick  succession 
of  a  number  of  little  cartridges.  Yet  you  must  be  quite 
close  to  the  bird  in  order  to  hear  the  queer  canticle  dis- 
tinctly, and  when  you  do  hear  it  you  will  wonder  why 
nature  ever  put  such  a  song  into  a  bird's  larynx.  The 
Harris  sparrow  also  utters  an  explosive  alarm-call,  which 
expresses  not  a  little  petulance  and  concern. 

One  day  a  pretty  picture  was  made  by  two  of  these 
birds  that  stood  face  to  face  on  a  brush  heap,  bowing  at 
each  other,  each  threatening  to  peck  the  other's  head  off, 
and  both  singing  all  the  while  at  the  top  of  their  voices, 
yet  each  afraid,  in  spite  of  his  bluster,  to  close  with  his 
opponent  in  actual  contest.  It  was  a  miniature  exhibi- 
tion of  the  beak-to-beak  challenging  often  indulged  in 
by  two  rival  cocks  of  the  farmyard.  For  some  minutes 
the  little  farce  was  kept  up,  then  one  of  the  birds  became 
tired  of  the  game  and  darted  over  to  the  next  brush  heap. 

I  have  said  that  these  birds  are  scarcely  known  east 
of  the  Mississippi  River,  but  Mr.  Ridgway  says  that  they 
are  occasionally  seen  during  migration  in  Illinois  and 
Wisconsin.  In  eastern  Kansas  and  western  Missouri 


Making  New  Friends  31 

they  are  common,  almost  abundant,  during  both  the 
vernal  and  autumnal  migrations,  and  after  you  have 
once  cultivated  their  acquaintance  they  are  likable,  if  not 
quite  companionable,  birds.  But  familiar  as  they  are  in 
the  regions  named,  they  are  still  something  of  a  mystery 
to  the  naturalists  of  our  country,  for  Mr.  Ridgway  says 
that  their  " breeding  range  is  unknown,"  save  that  there 
is  a  doubtful  record  of  one  nest  at  Fort  Custer,  Montana; 
while  Mrs.  Bailey  says:  "The  breeding  range  of  the 
Harris  sparrow  is  unknown  except  for  Mr.  Preble's  Fort 
Churchill  record.  The  last  of  July,  among  the  dwarf 
spruces  of  Fort  Churchill,  he  found  an  adult  male  and 
female  with  young  just  from  the  nest."  It  will  be  remem- 
bered that  Fort  Churchill  is  away  up  on  the  coast  of  the 
Hudson  Bay.  It  is  probable,  therefore,  that  the  nest  of 
the  Harris  sparrow  has  never  been  found  by  any  of  the 
naturalists  of  America.  Who  would  suppose  that  these 
birds,  so  numerous  and  so  well  known  in  Kansas,  would, 
in  the  breeding  season,  surround  themselves  with  such 
an  air  of  mystery? 

It  was  in  Kansas,  too,  that  I  really  came  to  know  the 
Lincoln  sparrow  and  hear  his  song,  although  I  had 
caught  a  few  fleeting  glimpses  of  him  in  the  East,  and  also 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Duluth,  Minnesota.  In  the  Sun- 
flower state  his  conduct  was  just  about  as  inconsistent 
as  it  could  have  been  without  being  downright  absurd. 
What  do  I  mean  by  that?  Why,  while  he  was  as  wild  as 
a  deer,  he  still  came  to  town,  flitting  about  in  the  bushes 
of  a  vacant  lot  near  my  house,  and  even  visiting  the  fence 

3 


32  Bird  Comrades 

between  my  yard  and  the  adjoining  one,  hopping  about  on 
the  ground  with  one  eye  on  the  lookout  for  nits  and  worms 
and  the  other  for  human  disturbers.  My  attention  was 
first  drawn  to  him  by  hearing  a  squeaky  little  trill  in  the 
vacant  lot.  But,  my!  how  wary  he  was  when  I  went  out 
to  find  him!  The  song  bore  some  resemblance  to  that  of 
the  house  wren,  but  had  not  so  rolling  and  gurgling  a 
quality,  and  was  pitched  to  a  slightly  higher  and.  finer 
key.  For  a  long  time  he  kept  himself  ensconced  in  the 
thicket,  trilling  saucily  at  intervals,  as  if  daring  me  to 
find  him  if  I  could,  and  when  I  finally  drove  him  out  of 
his  hiding  place,  he  darted  off  in  a  zigzag  course  to  another 
bush  clump,  into  which  he  dropped  in  the  greatest  possi- 
ble haste. 

By  and  by  his  curiosity  got  the  better  of  him,  and  he 
flitted  to  the  top  of  a  brush  heap  and  peeped  out  at  me 
surreptitiously.  My  glass  was  upon  him  in  a  moment, 
revealing  his  whitish  throat  and  mottled  chest  washed 
with  buff,  the  latter  being  his  characteristic  marking.  A 
few  days  later  he  was  singing  in  a  small  apple  tree  by  my 
neighbor's  fence.  I  stole  as  close  to  him  as  I  could  and 
peered  at  him  through  my  binocular,  while  he  returned 
the  compliment  by  peering  at  me,  and  then  warily  ven- 
tured to  rehearse  his  little  tune.  The  least  movement 
on  my  part  would  startle  him,  cause  him  to  flit  to  another 
perch  and  crane  out  his  neck  to  glare  at  me  questioningly 
with  wild,  dilated  eyes,  uncertain  whether  I  was  to  be 
trusted  or  not.  Both  of  us  presently  grew  tired  of  our 
strained  position,  and  so  I  walked  off  and  he  flew  away. 


Making  New  Friends  33 

No  doubt  there  was  mutual  satisfaction  in  the  inspection 
we  gave  each  other;  at  least,  I  felt  well  satisfied  with 
having  heard  the  song  of  so  shy  a  bird.  His  stay  in  my 
neighborhood  lasted  only  a  few  days;  then  he  left  as 
mysteriously  as  he  had  come,  without  even  the  courtesy 
of  a  good-bye.  He  went  to  his  summer  home  in  the 
North,  and  I  did  not  see  him  again  until  the  next  spring, 
just  twelve  months  later  almost  to  the  day. 


WILDWOOD    MINSTRELS* 

N  "OTHING  affords  the  bird  student  more  pleasure 
than  settling  the  identity  of  species,  albeit  some- 
times it  is  hard  and  patience-trying  work.  And 
of  all  the  birds,  none  are  so  provokingly  and  charmingly 
elusive  as  some  of  the  wood  warblers.  What  a  time  I  had 
for  several  years  in  making  sure  of  some  of  these  little 
nymph-like  creatures  which  were  flitting  about  in  the 
foliage  of  the  trees,  concealing  themselves  by  a  leafy 
barrier!  Many  a  weary  chase  did  they  lead  me  through 
the  woods,  and  more  than  once  I  almost  un jointed  my 
neck  by  long-continued  looking  up. 

For  identifying  the  tree-top  flitters  an  opera  glass  is 
scarcely  powerful  enough.  A  field  glass  or  a  Bausch  & 
Lomb  binocular  is  really  a  necessity.  It  draws  the  bird 
right  down  to  you,  while  at  the  same  time  the  elusive 
creature  remains  at  what  it  regards  a  safe  distance.  Its 
conduct  will  therefore  not  be  constrained,  and  the 
observer  can  study  it  in  its  natural  poses. 

What  an  enigma  the  Tennessee  warbler  for  a  long  time 
remained  to  me!  Never  still  for  a  moment,  yet  so  indis- 
tinctly marked  that  at  a  distance  it  looks  like  a  dozen 
other  birds  one  might  name — a  veritable  feathered  rebus. 
But  finally  I  fixed  its  place  in  the  avian  schedule  with  the 

*  Parts  of  this  and  several  other  chapters  of  this  book  were  first  published  in  The  New 
York  Times,  whose  courtesy  in  permitting  him  to  reprint,  the  author  hereby  acknowledges. 

34 


YELLOW  WARBLER 
Dendroica  cestiva 


Wildwood  Minstrels  35 

help  of  my  field  glass  —white  under  parts,  slightly  tinged 
with  yellow,  back  and  rumrj  olive  green,  top  and  sides  of 
head  delicate  bluish-ash ;  no  eye-ring,  no  wing-bars.  There 
is  no  other  warbler  marked  quite  like  that.  And  yet  its 
song  is  its  most  conspicuous  mark,  so  to  speak,  for  it  is  a 
loud,  shrill,  and  very  rapidly  repeated  run,  which  might  be 
spelled  out  in  this  way:  "  Chippy,  chippy,  chippy,  chip- 
pity-chippity-chippity."  The  whole  song  is  emitted  at  a 
galloping  pace,  giving  you  the  impression  that  the  bird  is 
in  a  desperate  hurry.  Important  business  on  hand,  no 
doubt!  Yes,  there  is  a  worm  or  a  nit  on  the  under  side 
of  that  leaf,  and  he  must  nab  it  now  or  never !  With  such 
pressing  business  matters  on  hand,  he  has  no  time  for 
regaling  you  with  "linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out." 

Still,  he  sometimes  does  prolong  his  ditty,  giving  it  a 
saucy,  challenging  air.  No  other  warbler  sings  so  loudly. 
His  voice  is  as  shrill  and  penetrating  as  that  of  the  indigo 
bird,  though  the  song  is  quite  different  in  technique. 

Another  feathered  conundrum  was  the  Nashville, 
warbler,  whose  back  and  head  are  colored  like  those  of 
the  Tennessee,  but  whose  under  parts  are  Bright  yellow, 
instead  of  white  or  white  only  slightly  washed  with 
yellow;  and,  besides,  sharp  peering  through  your  glass 
will  reveal  a  distinct  white  ring  encircling  the  eye.  The 
bird  in  the  hand  would  also  show  a  dainty  chestnut  patch 
on  the  crown,  but  this  mark  is  seldom  seen  while  it  is 
flitting  about  in  the  leafy  trees.  The  songs  of  the  Nash- 
ville and  the  Tennessee  are  somewhat  similar,  but  not 
the  same,  the  Tennessee's  being  louder,  shriller,  and  more 


36  Bird  Comrades 

sharply  accentuated,  while  his  cousin's  is  more  liquid  and 
musical  and  far  less  sibilant.  My  notes  represent  the 
Nashville's  song  phonetically  as  follows:  "  Swee,  swee, 
swee,  ah-wit-ah-wit-ah-wit,"  delivered  rapidly  in  a  high 
key  and  with  not  a  little  energy  and  emphasis.  When 
my  notes  were  made  the  little  lyrist  was  putting  his  best 
foot  forward,  and  was  not  high  in  the  trees,  so  that  I 
heard  him  distinctly.  The  Tennessee  warblers  were  also 
singing  near  at  hand,  giving  me  a  good  opportunity  to 
compare  the  arias  of  the  two  species. 

Belonging  to  the  same  subfamily  is  the  orange- 
crowned  warbler.  It  has  not  .so  marked  a  preference  for 
trees  as  its  little  relatives  just  mentioned,  but  likes,  so 
far  as  my  observation  goes,  to  flit  about  in  thickets,  where 
it  remains  in  hiding  until  driven  from  its  covert  or  drawn 
forth  by  curiosity.  Only  for  a  moment  does  it  appear  in 
sight,  then  plunges  into  another  covert.  You  will  note  that 
its  eye-ring  is  yellow,  and  that  its  under  parts  are  neither 
bright  yellow,  like  the  Nashville's,  nor  white,  like  the 
Tennessee's,  but  greenish  yellow  obscurely  streaked  on  the 
chest.  I  have  never  heard  the  song  of  the  orange-crown. 

There  are  a  number  of  shy  warblers  that  are  especially 
partial  to  wild,  unfrequented^  parts  of  the  woods,  where 
they  are  seldom  disturbed  by  human  intruders.  In 
Kansas  I  found  them  in  the  deep,  densely  wooded  ravines 
running  back  from  the  Missouri  River  and  its  tributary 
valleys.  Although  these  feathered  recluses  are  rarely 
molested  by  man,  they  seem  to  know  enough  about  his 
character  to  look  upon  him  with  a  suspicious  eye  when 


Wildwood  Minstrels  37 

he  ventures  into  their  sylvan  domain.  Hence  they  are 
hard  to  study,  and  it  is  not  often  that  their  deftly  hidden 
nests  can  be  found. 

One  of  the  most  delightful  of  these  hermits  is  the 
Kentucky  warbler.  A  brilliant  little  bird  he  is,  with  his 
golden  under  parts  and  superciliary  line,  his  black  patch 
on  the  cheek  just  below  the  eye,  his  black  cap,  and  his 
coat  of  iridescent  olive  green.  You  will  not  mistake 
him  for  the  Maryland  yellow-throat,  which  also  wears 
a  black  patch  on  the  side  of  his  head;  but  this  patch 
lies  over  the  eye  and  includes  it,  and  its  upper  border 
is  white,  while  this  bird  lacks  the  yellow  and  curved 
superciliary  band.  Besides,  the  yellow-throat  is  not  a 
woodland  but  a  marsh  bird.  The  Kentucky  warbler  is 
attractive  in  many  ways.  An  industrious  minstrel, 
his  voice  is  strong  and  full  for  so  small  a  bird,  and  until 
you  learn  to  know  his  tune  well,  you  may  mistake  it  for 
that  of  the  cardinal.  But,  as  a  piper,  he  lacks  the  versa- 
tility of  the  cardinal,  who  carries  a  number  of  music  sheets 
in  his  repertory,  while  the  little  Kentuckian  confines  his 
lyrical  efforts  principally  to  one  strain.  Sometimes  he 
delivers  his  intermittent  aria  from  a  low  bush  or  even 
from  the  ground,  but  his  favorite  song-perches  are  the 
branches  of  saplings  and  trees  just  below  the  zone  of 
foliage.  Here,  in  the  shadows,  you  may  be  compelled  to 
look  for  him  for  some  time  before  you  espy  his  trig  little 
form,  and  even  then  you  are  likely  to  see  him  because 
he  flits  to  another  perch  rather  than  because  you  first 
catch  the  glint  of  his  colors.  Whether  he  means  it  or  not, 


38  Bird  Comrades 

he  is  something  of  a  ventriloquist,  for  which  reason  you 
will  often  look  for  him  in  many  places  before  seeing  him. 

As  I  have  noted,  he  is  an  untiring  singer.  It  never 
occurred  to  me  to  time  him,  but  Dr.  Frank  M.  Chapman 
has  had  the  patience  to  do  so.  "  On  one  occasion,"  says 
this  observer,  "  at  Englewood,  New  Jersey,  I  watched  a 
male  for  three  hours.  During  this  period,  with  the  exception 
of  five  interruptions  of  less  than  forty-five  seconds  each, 
he  sang  with  the  greatest  regularity  once  every  twelve 
seconds.  Thus,  allowing  for  the  brief  intervals  of  silence, 
he  sang  about  875  times,  or  some  5,250  notes.  I  found 
him  singing,  and  when  I  departed  he  showed  no  signs  of 
ceasing."  It  is  such  painstaking  observations  that  add 
something  new  and  fresh  to  our  knowledge  of  birds. 

The  Kentucky  warbler  is  fond  of  walking  about  on  the 
ground  in  the  woods,  seeking  for  his  favorite  insects.  As 
you  slowly  follow,  you  will  now  and  then  catch  a  glimpse 
of  him  through  the  apertures  of  the  leaves;  then  he  will 
again  disappear  beneath  his  canvas  of  green.  Thus  he 
pursues  his  quest  hour  after  hour,  and  you  may  hear  the 
rustle  of  his  tiny  feet  upon  the  carpet  of  dead  leaves.  Is 
it  only  a  notion  of  mine,  or  am  I  correct,  in  thinking  that 
his  promenades  on  the  ground  are  mostly  taken  early  in 
the  spring  before  there  is  danger  from  snakes? 

I  like  the  pretty  Kentuckians,  but  must  grant  you 
that  in  some  respects  they  are  quite  exasperating,  never 
inclined  to  be  as  confiding  as  some  other  birds.  And 
then  most  birds  will  sooner  or  later  betray  the  presence 
of  their  nests,  but  the  Kentucky  warblers  seldom  do  so, 


Wildwood  Minstrels  39 

knowing  too  well  how  to  keep  their  procreant  secrets. 
They  have  evidently  learned  the  use  of  strategy,  as  you 
will  see:  One  day  a  pair  began  to  chirp  vigorously  as  I 
approached  their  demesne  in  a  lonely  hollow,  and  I  felt  a 
thrill  of  joy  at  the  prospect  of  finding  a  nest.  One  of 
them  even  flitted  about  with  a  worm  in  its  bill — a  sure 
sign  of  nestlings  in  the  neighborhood.  For  nearly  four 
hours  I  watched  the  chirping  couple,  and  peered,  as  I 
thought,  into  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  place,  but 
all  in  vain;  neither  nest  nor  bantlings  could  I  find.  Yet 
in  some  way  that  seemed  almost  mysterious  enough  to 
be  uncanny,  the  mother  bird  got  rid  of  the  tidbit  which 
she  held  in  her  bill.  She  probably  decided  to  eat  it  her- 
self rather  than  betray  the  whereabouts  of  her  younglings. 
I  have  seen  more  than  one  parent  bird  do  that. 

A  few  days  later,  in  the  same  hollow,  a  Kentucky 
warbler  was  singing  contentedly,  showing  no  signs  of 
uneasiness.  The  female  was  not  to  be  seen  or  heard. 
I  stalked  about  a  long  time,  hoping  to  flush  her  from  her 
nest,  but  all  my  efforts  were  as  futile  that  day  as  they  had 
been  on  my  previous  visit.  In  another  hollow,  on  the 
same  day,  I  watched  a  Kentucky  warbler  flitting  about 
with  a  worm  in  her  bill.  Again  and  again  she  disap- 
peared somewhere  in  the  tanglewood,  and  came  back 
with  an  empty  bill  to  chirp  her  disapproval  of  my  spying; 
but  look  as  I  would  in  the  very  places  where  she  went 
down,  I  could  discover  no  nest.  In  Warbledom  it  is 
evidently  no  violation  of  ethical  principles  to  act  a  lie  in 
order  to  protect  a  nestful  of  bantlings. 


40  Bird  Comrades 

But  my  story  is  not  to  have  a  disappointing  ending, 
after  all,  for  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1902  my  stars 
became  auspicious,  and  I  found  three  Kentucky  warblers' 
nests  that  were  tenanted  and  several  more  that  were 
already  deserted.  Perhaps  the  turning  of  my  luck  was 
due  not  so  much  to  accident  as  to  the  fact  that  I  had 
' 'caught  on,"  and  knew  more  about  their  ruses.  One  of 
the  .nests  discovered  is  worth  describing. 

It  was  on  a  hilltop  in  Kansas,  blown  by  the  freshest 
breezes  that  sweep  over  the  limitless  prairies.  An  ideal 
spot,  indeed,  for  the  nesting  of  birds  that  love  lone  places. 
In  one  of  my  rambles  I  found  this  pleasant  elevation,  and 
was  attracted  by  the  possibilities  it  offered  for  bird 
study.  Presently  a  male  Kentucky  warbler  appeared  with 
a  couple  of  large  worms  in  his  beak,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  find  his  nest  if  perseverance  could  accomplish 
that  object.  So  I  sat  down  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  and 
watched  the  bird  closely.  Now  note  his  admirable  finesse. 
After  flitting  about  among  the  bushes  for  a  minute  or  two, 
chirping  his  protest  at  my  presence,  he  descended  into 
the  copse  below  and  disappeared.  Of  course,  any  student 
of  birds  would  have  supposed  that  he  had  gone  down 
near  the  nest  to  feed  his  bairns,  and  that  he  only  needed 
to  go  and  examine  the  place  to  discover  the  little  avian 
secret.  My  pulses  thrilled  more  than  a  little  as  I  began 
my  search  for  the  nest  right  where  the  bird  had  descended 
into  the  thicket.  But  do  you  know  that  my  most  strenu- 
ous efforts — and  they  were  strenuous  on  a  hot  day  like 
that — resulted  only  in  disappointment  ?  The  nest  was 


Wildwood  Minstrels  41 

not  to  be  found  within  a  radius  of  a  rod  from  the  point 
where  the  little  diplomat  went  down.  A  few  days  later 
I  made  my  way  to  the  hilltop,  and  do  you  know  that  the 
shrewd  bi^d  played  me  the  same  trick?  He  scuttled 
down  into  the  bushes  at  almost  the  same  point  as  before, 
and  no  nest  rewarded  my  search.  I  went  home  just 
about  ready  to  give  up  my  search  for  Kentucky  warblers' 
nests,  for  I  had  been  hunting  them  for  a  number  of  years 
without  success. 

However,  in  a  few  days  I  found  rny  way  again  to 
the  breezy  hilltop.  The  chats,  vireos,  and  indigo  birds 
gave  due  warning  of  my  approach,  and  I  felt  sure  that 
Master  Kentucky  and  his  mate  would  be  on  their  guard. 
To  my  delight,  in  a  few  minutes  the  female  presented 
herself  in  one  of  the  trees,  her  bill  holding  a  bunch  of 
worms.  Luckily  she  was  not  so  wary  or  diplomatic  as 
her  husband,  and,  in  addition,  she  was  extremely  anxious 
to  feed  her  hungry  babies.  Instead  of  going  over  to  the 
copse  where  the  male  bird  had  played  me  such  a  clever 
trick,  she  flew  down  the  path  about  four  rods  to  a  small 
scrub  oak,  from  which  she  soon  dropped  into  the  weeds 
below.  Then  I  said  to  myself,  "Aha!"  and  smiled  in 
a  knowing  way. 

I  walked  down  the  path  to  the  tree,  but  no  Kentucky 
warblers  were  to  be  seen — not  right  away.  So  I  sat  down 
in  the  path  and  waited  to  see  what  would  happen.  It 
was  only  a  short  time  till  the  female  appeared,  with  a 
telltale  bunch  of  worms  in  her  beak.  A  moment  later 
her  mate  also  arrived,  carrying  a  small  worm  in  the  usual 


42  Bird  Comrades 

way.  The  situation  was  growing  interesting.  The  two 
birdlets  chirped  and  flitted  about  in  the  tree  for  a  long 
time,  afraid  to  go  down  to  the  nest.  I  moved  slowly 
and  cautiously  farther  up  the  path  to  give  them  a  better 
chance  to  divulge  their  secret.  Presently  the  pretty 
madame  summoned  courage  to  drop  to  a  lower  perch  in 
the  tree,  then  to  a  still  lower  one,  then  to  the  top  of  one 
of  the  bushes  below,  and  at  last  into  the  weed  clump  and 
out  of  sight. 

I  wasted  no  time.  In  a  minute  I  was  pressing  the 
weeds  apart  and  looking  down  admiringly  into  the  little  cot 
with  its  four  half -fledged  occupants — the  first  Kentucky 
warbler's  nest  I  had  ever  seen.  Set  upon  the  ground, 
its  bulky  foundation  of  dry  leaves  supported  the  cup 
proper,  which  was  lined  with  fine  grass.  Easy  enough  to 
find  when  you  knew  precisely  where  to  look  for  it. 

Think  now  of  the  little  game  the  male  bird  had  played 
me  on  my  previous  visits  to  the  haunt!  He  had 
descended  into  the  copse  about  four  rods  distant  from 
the  nest  instead  of  going  down  near  its  site;  then  he  had 
doubtless  followed  a  secret  pathway  throtigh  the  weeds 
and  bushes  to  the  nest,  fed  his  children,  and  hurried 
away  without  letting  himself  be  seen. 

The  parent  birds  did  not  like  the  idea  of  my  finding 
and  inspecting  their  nest,  for  they  chirped  and  darted 
about  in  a  panic.  To  relieve  their  anguish  I  retired  up 
the  slope  a  short  distance,  seated  myself  in  the  pleasant 
shade  of  a  scrub  oak,  and  made  an  entry  of  my  find  in 
my  notebook.  Alas!  I  had  probably  done  harm  to  my 


Wildwood  Minstrels  43 

little  friends  without  intending  it,  for  their  chirping 
attracted  the  attention  of  one  of  their  worst  foes,  and 
drew  him  to  the  spot.  I  loitered  about  for  perhaps  ten 
minutes,  and  then  decided  to  take  one  more  peep  at  the 
pretty  domicile  before  leaving  the  hilltop.  As  I  drew 
near,  I  observed  that  the  parent  birds  were  chirping  in 
a  low,  but  heart-broken  way,  as  if  they  were  almost 
stricken  dumb  with  terror.  Were  they  so  badly  fright- 
ened because  I  was  returning  to  their  nest  ? 

I  stepped  up  cautiously  and  looked  down  at  the  nest. 
It  was  now  my  turn  to  give  vent  to  a  cry  of  consterna- 
tion, for  what  I  saw  was  this :  A  large  blacksnake  coiled 
about  the  nest,  the  fold  of  his  neck  wabbling  to  and  fro 
in  a  terrifying  way,  while  with  his  mouth  he  was  trying 
to  seize  one  of  the  bantlings.  Fortunately  I  had  a  good- 
sized  stick,  almost  a  club,  in  my  hand,  and  I  wasted  no 
time  in  bringing  it  down  with  all  the  force  I  could  com- 
mand upon  the  serpent,  taking  care  to  deliver  the  blow 
at  the  side  of  the  nest.  The  snake  tried  to  uncoil,  but 
another  blow  broke  his  backbone,  if  indeed  the  first  one 
had  not  done  so,  and  he  was  in  my  power.  He  had 
swallowed  one  of  the  nestlings,  but  three  were  left,  and 
seemed  to  be  in  good  condition.  On  my  return  to  the 
place  a  few  days  later  the  nest  was  empty,  and  I  fear  that 
the  remaining  little  ones  had  also  been  destroyed,  per- 
haps by  the  mate  of  the  snake  from  which  I  had  rescued 
them. 

On  the  shelf  of  a  steep  bluff  covered  with  a  riot  of 
bushes  and  briars  a  pair  of  hooded  warblers  found  a 


44  Bird  Comrades 

dwelling  place  to  their  taste  in  the  spring  of  1900.  This 
handsome  birdlet  may  be  known  by  his  dainty  yellow 
hood,  bordered  with  black,  and  cannot  be  mistaken  for 
any  other  member  of  the  great  feathered  fraternity. 
One  cannot  look  at  him  without  feeling  that  Nature  tried 
to  see  what  she  could  do  in  the  way  of  an  unusual 
arrangement  of  colors.  Who  can  tell  what  impelled  her 
to  make  a  living  gem  like  this,  as  odd  as  it  is  beautiful  ? 

On  the  side  of  the  bluff  referred  to  I  was  first  attracted 
by  the  vivacious  song  of  the  little  male,  which  I  had  not 
heard  for  several  years — not  since  an  excursion  I  had 
taken  into  Louisiana  and  Mississippi.  His  voice  was  clear 
and  ringing,  and  the  tune  he  executed  was  by  no  means 
a  meager  performance. 

One  day  a  loud,  metallic  chirping  was  heard,  and 
presently  two  hooded  warblers  appeared,  each  with  the 
proverbial  green  worm  in  its  beak.  I  decided  to  remain 
in  the  nook  and  watch,  for  the  nesting  habits  of  these 
rare  warblers  were  new  to  me.  In  and  out,  up  and  down, 
here  and  there,  they  flitted,  making  a  checker- work  of 
black  and  gold  amid  the  foliage,  craning  their  necks, 
peeririg  at  me  with  anxious  inquiry  in  their  dark  little 
eyes,  and  filling  the  woodland  with  their  uneasy  chirping. 

It  was  a  long  time  to  wait,  but  at  length  patience  had 
its  reward;  one  of  the  birds  flew  down  to  the  bushes  on 
the  steep  slope  above  me  and  fed  a  youngster  in  plain 
view.  No  time  was  lost  in  pushing  through  the  bushy 
tangle  to  the  magic  spot.  Behold!  it  was  a  young  cow- 
bird  that  had  been  fed  by  the  devoted  little  mother! 


Wildwood  Minstrels  45 

That  was  trying  beyond  expression — to  think  that  all  the 
efforts  of  the  pretty  couple,  all  their  intense  solicitude, 
was  wasted  on  a  great,  hulking  imposter  like  the  cowbird. 
He  had  just  scrambled  from  the  nest,  from  which  he  had 
doubtless  previously  crowded  the  rightful  heirs  of  the 
family  to  perish  from  starvation  on  the  ground.  I  found 
the  nest  only  about  a  foot  away  from  the  perch  of  the 
young  bird — a  deep,  neat  little  basket,  compactly  felted 
with  down  and  plant  fibers,  set  in  the  crotch  of  a  slender 
bush  of  the  thicket.  It  was  certainly  too  small  to  accom- 
modate any  tenants  besides  the  strapping  young  cow- 
bird.  In  the  spring  of  1902  another  hooded  warbler's 
nest  rewarded  my  search.  Its  holdings  were  four  callow 
bantlings,  all  of  which  were  carried  off  by  some  marauder 
before  my  next  visit. 

Another  little  charmer  of  the  woodland,  especially  of 
thick  second-growth  timber,  is  the  blue-winged  warbler, 
which  glories  in  the  high-sounding  Latin  name  of  Hel- 
minthophila  pinus .  Wherever  seen ,  he  would  attract  atten- 
tion on  account  of  the  peculiar  cut  and  color  of  his  clothes. 
A  conspicuous  black  line  reaching  from  the  corner  of  the 
mouth  back  through  the  eye  is  a  diagnostic  feature  of 
his  plumage,  while  his  crown  and  breast  gleam  in  bright 
yellow,  almost  golden  in  the  sunshine ;  his  wings  and  tail 
are  blue-gray,  with  some  white  trimmings,  and  his  back 
and  rump  are  bright  olive  There  you  have  an  array 
of  colors  that  makes  a  picture  indeed.  Madame  Blue- 
wing  wears  the  same  pattern  as  her  lord,  but  the  hues 
are  less  brilliant. 


46  Bird  Comrades 

The  manners  of  Sir  Blue-wing — I  call  him  so  because 
of  his  distinguished  air — are  interesting,  for  they  differ, 
in  one  respect  at  least,  from  those  of  most  of  the  other 
warblers  of  my  acquaintance.  He  flits  about  among  the 
branches  in  rather  a  leisurely  way — for  a  warbler;  but 
his  main  characteristic  is  his  unwarbler-like  fashion  of 
clinging  back  downward  to  the  under  side  of  the  twigs, 
after  the  manner  of  the  chickadee,  in  order  to  secure  the 
nits  and  worms  under  the  leaves.  He  acts  decidedly 
like  a  diminutive  trapeze  performer. 

His  song  consists  of  an  insect-like  buzz,  divided  into 
stanzas  of  two  syllables  each,  with  a  pensive  strain 
running  through  it,  as  if  the  heart  of  the  little  singer 
were  filled  with  sadness..  While  it  sounds  rather  faint  at 
a  distance,  close  at  hand  it  has  a  strangely  penetrating 
quality. 

Although  my  numerous  efforts  to  find  a  blue-wing's 
nest  were  unavailing,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  proving 
beyond  doubt  that  these  birds  breed  in  northeastern 
Kansas.  A  quaint,  squeaking  call  attracted  my  attention 
one  day,  and  I  found  that  it  proceeded  from  the  throat 
of  a  young  blue- wing  perched  in  the  bushes,  for  presently 
the  mamma  came  and  thrust  a  morsel  into  the  open 
mouth  of  the  bantling.  Some  young  birds  sit  quietly 
and  patiently,  waiting  for  their  rations,  and  utter  only  a 
faint  twitter  when  they  are  fed;  but  the  youthful  blue- 
wings  are  not  of  so  contented  and  silent  a  disposition. 
On  the  contrary,  they  are  noisy  little  fellows,  making 
their  presence  known  to  friend  and  foe  alike,  although 


Wild  wood  Minstrels  47 

they  are  very  careful  never  to  permit  the  human  observer 
to  come  too  close.  ^They  are  duly  warned  of  danger  by 
their  ever-vigilant  parents.  Sometimes  a  youngster  will 
sit  on  the  same  perch  for  a  long  time,  preening  his  feathers 
and  uttering  a  little  call  at  intervals,  just  to  keep  in 
practice,  as  it  were;  while  at  other  times  he  will  ^  pursue 
his  parents  about  in  the  woods,  loudly  demanding  his 
dinner.  One  season  I  succeeded  in  finding  at  least  five 
pairs  of  these  warblers,  in  company  with  their  clamorous 
broods.  The  nest  is  set  on  the  ground  in  the  bushes  and 
grass  of  second -growth  timber  tracts.  Lined  with  ten- 
drils and  fine  strips  of  bark,  it  is  "firmly  wrapped 
with  numerous  leaves,  whose  stems  point  upward." 
Another  haunter  of  the  dusky  depths  of  the  woods  is 
the  ovenbird.  His  song  is  one  of  the  most  peculiar 
in  warbler dom.  Beginning  in  moderate  tones,  it  grows 
louder  and  louder  as  it  nears  the  end,  and  really  seems 
like  a  voice  moving  toward  you.  This  bird  also  walks 
about  in  the  woods,  and  does  not  hop,  as  most  of  his 
relatives  do.  As  he  walks  about  on  his  leafy  carpet, 
his  head  erect,  he  has  quite  a  consequential  air.  He 
derives  his  name  from  the  fact  that  his  nest,  set  on  the 
ground,  is  globular  in  form,  with  the  entrance  at  one 
side,  giving  it  the  appearance  of  a  small  oven. 

The  gay  redstarts,  which  seem  to  be  so  tame  and  con- 
fiding in  the  early  spring,  turn  into  veritable  eremites 
in  the  breeding  season,  seeking  the  most  secluded  por- 
tions of  the  woods  as  their  habitat.  Their  little  nests 
are  harder  to  find  than  one  would  suppose;  yet  I  have 

4 


48  Bird  Comrades 

had  the  good  fortune  to  watch  two  females  erecting  the 
walls  of  their  tiny  cottages,  and  a  pretty  sight  it  was. 

The  redstart  has  some  interesting  ways.  One  of  them 
is  his  habit  of  spreading  out  his  wings  and  tail  as  he  perches 
or  flits  about  in  the  trees,  as  if  he  were  anxious  to  display 
the  fiery  trimmings  that  so  elegantly  set  off  his  little  black 
suit.  Blood  will  tell,  for  I  have  seen  the  young  redstarts 
imitating  their  parents  by  spreading  out  their  odd,  croppy 
tails  in  a  comical  way. 

How  early  in  life  young  birds,  are  taught  some  of  the 
lessons  that  are  needful  for  their  own  safety!  One  day 
I  heard  a  young  redstart  chirping  for  his  dinner.  I 
quietly  thrust  my  head  into  the  thicket,  and  soon  espied 
the  birdkin  perched  on  a  twig  only  about  a  rod  away. 
He  either  did  not  see  me,  or  else  decided  that  I  was  not  a 
bugaboo.  A  few  minutes  later  the  mother  darted  into 
the  enclosure  and  fed  her  baby.  She  was  too  much 
absorbed  in  her  duties  to  notice  me  until  the  repast  was 
over;  then  she  suddenly  caught  sight  of  her  unwelcome 
caller.  She  stood  transfixed  with  astonishment  for  one 
breathless  moment,  then  uttered  a  piercing  cry  of  alarm 
that  sent  the  little  one  dashing  away  like  a  streak  of 
lightning.  Plainly  the  youngster  understood  his  mam- 
ma's signal,  for  until  she  uttered  it  he  had  sat  perfectly 
quiet  and  unconcerned,  perhaps  not  even  aware  of  my 
presence.  Birds  are  taught  the  language  of  fear  at  a 
tender  age.  Of  course  they  learn  it  so  readily  because 
there  is  a  basis  of  timidity  in  their  natures,  implanted 
by  heredity. 


CHICKADEE 
Parus  atricapillus 

(Two-thirds  natural  size) 


CHICKADEE    WAYS* 

IN  a  somewhat  casual  way,  and  without  going  into 
their  natural  history,  the  last  two  chapters  have 
indicated  the  method  of  making  an  acquaintance 
with  new  species  and  of  studying  the  habits  of  a  few 
wild  birds.  A  few  chapters  will  now  be  devoted  to  a 
fuller  study  of  a  number  of  interesting  birds.  Not  that 
I  expect  to  write  their  complete  life  histories,  which, 
indeed,  would  not  be  necessary ;  but  that  I  may  give  you 
some  idea  of  the  large  amount  of  knowledge  that  can  be 
gained  of  one  species.  If  this  were  multiplied  by  the 
knowledge  procurable  from  the  study  of  all  the  members 
of  the  feathered  brotherhood,  think  what  an  education 
the  whole  would  give  one.  Let  us  begin  with  the  familiar 
little  tomtit. 

In  his  valuable  manual,  "  Birds  of  Eastern  North 
America,"  Dr.  Frank  M.  Chapman  calls  the  little  black- 
capped  chickadee  an  "  animated  bunch  of  black  and 
white  feathers."  That  is  certainly  a  graphic  and  correct 
way  of  putting  it,  for  no  bird  is  more  active  and  alert  than 
this  little  major  with  the  black  skull  cap  and  ashy-blue 
coat.  Everybody  knows  him,  I  take  it,  but  if  any  more 
points  are  needed  for  his  identification,  you  must  look  for 

*Reprinted  by  permission,  from  "  Our  Animal  Friends,"  New  York. 

49 


50  Bird  Comrades 

a  little  bird  which,  in  addition  to  his  cap  of  glossy  black, 
wears  a  bib  of  the  same  color,  buckled  up  close  to  his 
chin,  with  a  wedge  of  white  inserted  on  each  side  of  his 
neck  between  the  black  of  his  throat  and  crown  to  the 
corner  of  his  mouth. 

If  all  birds  were  as  sociably  disposed  as  the  little  tom- 
tit— for  that  is  also  one  of  his  names — bird  study  would 
be  a  delight,  and  almost  a  sinecure.  Trustful  and -fear- 
less, -he  often  comes  within  a  few  feet  of  you,  and  fixes 
you  with  his  keen  little  eyes,  which  dart  out  innumerable 
interrogation  points.  Sometimes  he  calls  his  own  name 
in  a  saucy  way,  "  Chick-a-dee-dee,  chick-a-dee-dee," 
which,  being  interpreted,  means,  "  What  is  your  business 
here,  sir?  Aren't  you  out  of  your  proper  latitude?" 
Occasionally  he  will  grow  terribly  excited  over  your 
presence — or  at  least  pretend,  to — scolding  and  shaming 
you  until  you  feel  yourself  a  real  interloper;  at  other  times 
he  will  salute  you  in  the  most  affable  way,  as  if  bidding 
you  welcome  to  his  haunts  and  inviting  you  to  come  often 
and  make  yourself  at  home.  What  a  pity  it  is  he  cannot 
talk,  and  let  us  know  what  he  really  thinks  of  us  and 
of  the  world  in  general!  Dr.  Chapman  says  that  on  two 
occasions  chickadees  have  flown  down  and  perched 
on  his  hand,  giving  him  the  feeling  that  he  was  being 
taken  into  their  confidence. 

Watch  Master  Tomtit  as  he  performs  some  of  his 
acrobatic  feats,  putting  the  tilters  and  tumblers  in  the 
human  circus  to  the  blush.  He  often  hangs  back  down- 
ward from  a  slender  twig  or  even  a  leaf,  and  daintily  picks 


Chickadee   Ways  51 

the  nits  that  have  ensconced  themselves  in  the  buds  or 
foliage.  Let  his  flexile  perch  sway  in  the  wind  as  it  will, 
he  is  safe,  for  if  the  twig  should  break  or  his  hold  should 
slip,  which  seldom  occurs,  he  can  recover  himself  at  once 
by  spreading  his  nimble  wings,  wheeling  about,  and 
alighting  on  a  perch  below.  Ah,  yes!  the  tomtit  is  the 
embodiment  and  poetry  of  nimbleness. 

But  he  is  more  than  a  mere  feathered  gentleman;  he 
is  an  extremely  useful  citizen.  Prof.  E.  D.  Sanderson 
published  a  valuable  article  in  "  The  Auk"  for  April  1898, 
in  which  he  proved  that  this  bird  serves  a  most  useful 
purpose  as  an  insecticide.  He  examined  the  craws  of 
twenty-eight  chickadees,  nineteen  of  them  secured  in  the 
winter  and  nine  in  the  spring.  During  the  winter  70.7 
per  cent  of  the  food  found  in  these  stomachs  was  animal, 
while  in  the  spring  no  vegetable  matter  was  found  at  all, 
the  birds  subsisting  entirely  on  insects  and  their  eggs 
and  larvae.  By  far  the  larger  part  of  the  insects  thus 
destroyed  were  of  the  noxious  species  that  bore  into  the 
bark  and  wood  of  the  trees  or  sting  the  fruit.  An  orchard 
in  which  several  chickadees  had  taken  up  their  abode 
one  winter  and  spring  was  so  well  cleared  of  canker  worms 
that  an  excellent  yield  of  fruit  was  grown,  whereas  the 
trees  of  other  orchards  in  the  neighborhood  were  largely 
defoliated  by  the  destructive  worms,  and  there  was  no 
yield  of  fruit. 

Professor  Sanderson  made  an  interesting  estimate  of 
the  economic  value  of  our  little  scavengers.  In  the  state 
of  Michigan,  where  his  observations  were  made,  he  thinks 


52  Bird  Comrades 

that  a  fair  average  is  seven  chickadees  to  the  square  mile. 
If  each  bird  should  destroy  fifty-five  insects  per  day, 
which  is  a  very  modest  estimate,  the  seven  birds  would 
consume  three  hundred  and  eighty-five  every  day,  making 
about  137,500  per  year  in  each  square  mile.  In  this  way 
about  eight  billions  of  insects  would  be  destroyed  annually 
in  the  state — an  economic  fact  whose  importance  cannot 
be  overestimated. 

The  same  investigator  also  thinks  that  it  would  be 
wise  for  farmers  and  fruit-growers  to  encourage  the 
chickadees  to  make  their  homes  in  orchards,  and  this 
could  be  done,  he  says,  "by  placing  food  for  them  till 
they  feel  at  home,  by  erecting  suitable  nesting  sites,  and 
by  careful  protection  " ;  to  which  I  would  add,  by  leaving 
a  few  old  snags  in  the  trees  where  the  birds  can  find 
natural  nesting  places.  Besides  the  useful  purpose  the 
birds  would  serve,  what  pleasant  companions  they  would 
be,  piping,  both  summer  and  winter,  their  sweet  minor 
tunes! 

No  one  can  deny  that  the  tomtit  is  a  companionable 
little  fellow.  In  addition  to  his  vigorous  call  of  "  Chick-a- 
dee-dee,"  he  whistles,  as  has  been  said,  a  sweet  minor 
strain  which  may  be  represented  by  the  syllables,  "Phe-e- 
be-e,"  repeated  again  and  again.  Often  in  midwinter, 
when  bland  days  come,  and  even  in  very  cold  weather, 
too,  sometimes,  he  will  pipe  his  pensive  air,  which  floats 
through  the  woods  like  a  song  of  chastened  sadness. 

Not  infrequently  two  tits  will  engage  in  what  may  be 
called  a  "responsive  exercise,"  swinging  their  two-part 


Chickadee   Ways  53 

song  back  and  forth  in  the  woods  like  a  silvery  pendulum. 
Not  soon  shall  I  forget  a  winter  day  on  which  I  listened 
with  delight  to  such  an  antiphonal  duet.  I  was  standing 
in  a  road  that  wound  along  the  foot  of  a  steep,  wooded 
bluff,  and  the  two  minstrels  were  in  the  woods  above  me, 
one  of  them  singing  very  high  in  the  scale,  the  other 
responding  in  the  same  tune,  but  almost,  if  not  quite,  an 
octave  lower.  At  first  they  were  about  twenty  rods 
apart,  but  as  they  swung  back  and  forth,  they  gradually 
approached  each  other  until  the  distance  between  them 
was  only  a  few  feet.  The  music  seemed  like  a  slender 
thread  of  silver  which  was  being  wound  up  at  both  ends, 
gradually  drawing  the  little  fluters'  together.  Sometimes 
one  of  them  would  miss  one  note  of  his  dissyllabic  song, 
and  at  times  the  refrains  were  repeated  in  a  leisurely  way, 
at  times  in  quick  succession;  but  the  performers  never 
sang  simultaneously,  each  waiting  until  his  fellow  minstrel 
had  given  his  reply.  The  pleasing  duet  lasted  for  many 
minutes;  indeed,  it  was  kept  up  long  after  I  left  the 
immediate  neighborhood,  for  when  I  had  gone  quite  a 
distance  the  sweet  cadenzas  still  fell  rhythmically  on  my 
ear.  To  my  mind  the  two-part  aria  seemed  like  a 
voluntary  performance,  and  I  cannot  doubt  that  it  was. 
There  was  too  much  of  an  air  of  purpose  about  it  to  per- 
mit of  the  thought  that  it  was  a  mere  accident  or  coinci- 
dence ;  but  whether  it  was  a  musical  contest  between  rival 
vocalists,  or  the  love  song  of  a  tomtit  and  his  mate,  I 
could  not  determine. 

Cunning  in  other  ways,  it  would  be  strange  if  the  torn- 


54  Bird  Comrades 

tits  did  not  display  acuteness  in  the  selection  of  nesting 
sites.  A  cosy  hollow  in  a  dead  snag  or  stump  is  especially 
acceptable.  Sometimes  it  is  a  deserted  woodpecker's 
cavity  made  trig  and  clean,  while  quite  often,  when  the 
wood  is  soft  enough,  the  tits  themselves  chisel  out  a  little 
hole  in  a  tree  or  stump  or  fence  post.  I  recall  having 
once  watched  a  pair  of  chickadees  hollowing  the  upper 
end  of  a  truncated  sassafras  tree  that  was  half  decayed. 
They  would  fly  into  the  cavity,  pick  off  a  chip,  dash  out 
and  away  a  rod  or  two,  drop  the  fragment,  then  dart  back 
to  the  hollow  for  another  piece.  In  this  way  the  busy 
couple  worked  hour  by  hour  without  resting  for  an  instant. 
Their  reason  no  doubt 'for  carrying  the  chips  some  distance 
away  from  their  nest  was  that  they  did  not  want  any 
telltale  fragments  to  betray  their  secret  to  their  enemies. 
It  would  be  impossible  to  tell  how  many  chickadee 
nests  I  have  found  in  all  the  years  of  my  bird  study. 
One  of  them  was  in  an  old  stump  near  a  path  along  which 
I  was  sauntering.  My  attention  was  attracted  by  the  lit- 
tle husband's  flying  from  the  stump  and  calling  nervously, 
thus  unwittingly  ".giving  away  "  his  secret.  Had  he  been 
quiet,  my  suspicions  would  not  have  been  aroused;  but 
many  birds,  like  a  few  people  here  and  there,  find  it  very 
hard  to  keep  a  secret.  And  this,  by  the  way,  is  one  of 
the  strangest  things  about  Nature — that  she  has  not 
taught  her  feathered  children  to  go  with,  apparent  uncon- 
cern about  their  employment  when  a  nest  is  near,  but 
impels  them  to  chirp  and  flit  about  in  such  a  way  as  to 
excite  the  suspicion  of  an  enemy. 


Chickadee   Ways  55 

Moralizing  aside,  however.  On  examining  the  stump, 
I  found  a  deep  cavity  just  inside  of  the  decaying  bark. 
Though  it  was  quite  dusk  within,  by  slightly  pressing 
the  bark  aside  I  could  see  the  little  mother  sitting  on  the 
nest,  unwilling  to  leave  it  in  spite  of  my  proximity.  I 
almost  touched  her  with  my  hand,  and  still  she  did  not 
move.  Unwilling  to  disturb  so  brave  a  heroine,  I  stepped 
back  and  walked  quietly  away  a  few  rods  to  see  what 
would  happen,  when  she  popped  out  of  the  orifice  like  an 
arrow  and,  joined  by  her  mate,  set  up  a  loud  chattering, 
which  sounded  as  if  they  were  saying  that  I  was  the  nosi- 
est and  most  impudent  man  in  the  whole  countryside. 

No  doubt  they  were  right,  for  I  went  back,  in  spite 
of  their  protest,  and  peeped  into  the  nest,  and  found 
four  gleaming  white  eggs  studding  the  bottom  like 
pearls.  Alas!  when  I  visited  the  place  two  weeks  later, 
the  little  domicile  had  been  raided,  the  half -decayed  walls 
having  been  broken  down.  A  tuft  of  gray  hair  hanging 
to  a  splinter  proved  the  invader  to  have  been  a  predatory 
animal  of  some  kind,  probably  a  cat.  The  birds  were 
nowhere  to  be  seen — unless  a  pair  chirping  in  the  woods 
on  the  other  side  of  the  valley  were  the  same  couple, 
trying  to  rear  a  family  in  a  safer  place. 

What  a  persistent  sitter  the  female  blackcap  is!  One 
day  I  discovered  a  nest  in  a  fence  post  by  the  wayside. 
Pressing  the  bark  aside,  I  could  plainly  see  the  little 
owner  snuggling  close  to  the  bottom  of  the  cup.  I  thrust 
my  finger  through  the  aperture  and  gently  stroked  her 
head  and  back.  Still  she  hugged  the  nest,  pressing  her 


56  Bird  Comrades 

head  close  to  the  grassy  bottom,  as  if  she  thought  she 
would  be  safe  if  her  head  were  hidden.  Thinking  she  must 
have  little  ones,  or  she  would  not  cling  so  tenaciously 
to  the  nest,  I  pushed  my  finger  under  her  and  partly 
raised  her  from  her  seat.  Even  this  rude  treatment  she 
bore  for  a  few  moments — but  it  was  going  too  far  even 
for  her  courageous  little  heart;  she  lifted  her  head, 
glanced  wildly  at  me  for  an  intense  moment,  then  "sprang 
from  the  cavity  with  a  piercing  cry. 

Imagine  my  surprise  to  find  the  nest  entirely  empty, 
not  even  an  egg  having  yet  been  deposited.  The  brave 
little  lady  had  doubtless  just  entered  the  nest  to  lay  her 
first  egg,  and  was  not  going  to  be  driven  off  without  know- 
ing the  reason  why.  The  tomtit  is  game  every  time. 

The  entrance  to  most  of  the  chickadee's  nests  is  lateral, 
but  I  found  one  nest  whose  doorway  was  in  the  top  of  a 
fence  post,  so  that  the  owners  had  to  go  down  into  it 
vertically.  The  hole  was  quite  deep,  and  the  birds  would 
drop  down  into  it  as  you  have  seen  swifts  dropping  into 
a  chimney,  but  whether  they  went  down  head  first  or  tail 
first  I  could  not  learn,  their  movements  were  so  quick. 
Another  feature  of  this  nest  was  that  it  had  no  roof,  for 
the  doorway  was  open  to  the  sky,  so  that  a  cloudburst 
would  have  filled  up  their  little  nursery  and  drowned  its 
inmates. 


WHITE-BREASTED  NUTHATCH 
Sitta  carolinensis 


THE    NUTHATCH    FAMILY* 


BIRDS    OF    THE    INVERTED    POSITION 

THERE  are  a  number  of  climbers  in  the  bird  realm, 
but  none  are  quite  so  expert  as  the  nuthatch, 
which  may  be  regarded  as  a  past-master  in  the 
art  of  clambering.  The  woodpeckers  amble  up  the  boles 
and  branches  of  trees,  and  when  they  wish  to  descend, 
as  they  do  occasionally  for  a  short  distance,  they  hitch 
down  backward.  The  brown  creepers  ascend  their 
vertical  or  oblique  walls  in  the  same  way,  but  seldom,  if 
ever>  do  anything  else  than  clamber  upward,  never 
descending  head  downward  after  the  fashion  of  the 
nuthatches. 

A  little  bird  that  comes  very  near  disputing  the  palm 
with  the  nuthatch  as  a  sylvan  coaster  is  the  creeping 
warbler,  which  flits  about  over  the  tree  boles  in  all  kinds 
of  attitudes,  even  with  his  dainty  head  pointed  toward 
the  earth.  No  fear  in  his  little  striped  breast  of  the  blood 
rushing  to  his  brain.  However,  even  this  clever  birdlet's 
dexterity  is  not  equal  to  that  of  the  nuthatch,  for  the  latter 
is  able  to  climb  up  and  down  a  smoother  wall  than  his 

*This  chapter  is  reprinted  from  that  excellent  bird  magazine  called  "American  Ornithol- 
ogy," published  by  Charles  K.  Reed,  Worcester,  Mass.,  and  edited  by  his  son,  Chester  A.  Reed. 
The  author  is  under  obligation  to  these  gentlemen  for  their  courtesy  in  permitting  him  to 
reprint  the  article. 

57 


58  Bird  Comrades 

little  rival.  More  than  that,  the  nuthatch  glides  down- 
ward with  more  ease  and  in  a  straight  line,  and  does  not 
fling  himself  from  side  to  side  as  the  warbler  does.  Indeed, 
the  warbler's  favorite  method  of  going  about  is  with  his 
head  directed  toward  the  sky  rather  than  the  reverse, 
while  it  really  seems  that  the  nuthatch's  predilection  is 
to  scuttle  about  in  an  inverted  position.  Does  he  wish 
to  chisel  a  grub  out  of  the  bark  of  a  tree?  He  usually 
stands  above  the  target  at  which  he  aims,  so  that  he  can 
deliver  his  blows  with  more  force,  just  as  the  human 
woodchopper  prefers  to  take  his  position  above  and  not 
below  the  stick  or  log  upon  which  he  expects  to  operate. 
There  the  bird  clings  to  his  shaggy  wall,  pounding  away 
with  might  and  main,  until  you  fear  he  will  shatter  his 
beak  or  strew  his  brains  on  the  bark.  Sometimes,  too, 
he  thrusts  his  long,  slender  beak  into  a  crevice  and  pries 
with  it  in  a  way  that  threatens  to  snap  it  off  in  the  middle. 
What  has  been  said  applies  to  the  white-breasted 
nuthatch  (Sitta  carolinensis) ,  but  it  is  fair  to  assume  that 
all  the  other  members  of  this  subfamily  behave  in  the 
same  way.  The  woodpeckers  and  creepers  use  their  spiny 
tails  as  supports  while  stationary  or  in  motion;  not. so  the 
nuthatches,  which  are  sufficiently  nimble  on  their  feet  to 
stand  or  glide  without  converting  their  tails  into  braces. 
Odd  as  it  may  seem  to  the  uninformed,  the  nuthatches 
belong  to  the  order  of  passeres  or  perching  birds,  in  spite 
of  their  creeping  habits.  The  systematists  have  placed 
them  in  this  niche  of  the  avicular  scheme,  not  only  because 
they  are  able  to  perch  like  other  passeres  on  twigs  and 


r 

The  Nuthatch  Family  59 

small  branches,  but  also  because  they  have  the  foot  of 
the  true  perching  bird,  with  three  toes  in  front  and  one, 
well  developed,  in  the  rear.  In  this  respect  they  differ 
again  from  the  woodpeckers,  which  have  either  two  fore 
and  two  hind  toes,  or  two  in  fyont  and  only  one  behind. 
This  will  appear  all  the  more  remarkable  when  it  is 
remembered  that  the  Picida  do  not  descend  head  down- 
ward at  all,  while  the  Sitting  are  the  head-downward 
goers  par  excellence.  Yet  they  have  only  one  rear  toe  to 
support  them  in  their  inverted  position.  You  would 
naturally  suppose  that  if  any  bird  had  need  of  two  hind 
toes,  it  would  be  the  nuthatch ;  but  the  result  proves 
that,  after  all,  Nature  had  her  wits  about  her  when  she 
evolved  this  avian  family. 

The  world  over,  there  are  twenty  distinct  species  of 
nuthatches  known  to  scientific  observers,  but  only  four 
of  them  are  natives  of  America.  Of  course,  there  are  a 
number  of  subspecies  or  varieties.  All  of  them  are  inces- 
sant climbers  and  foragers,  peering  into  crannies,  pound- 
ing here  and  there  to  make  the  grubs  stir  in  their  hiding 
places,  jabbing  and  prying  with  their  beaks,  and  chiseling 
out  all  kinds  of  larvae,  grubs,  and  borers  that  would,  if 
permitted  to  live  and  multiply,  soon  devastate  the  timber 
and  fruit  trees  and  make  this  world  a  desert  indeed. 
True,  the  other  feathered  clamberers  and  carpenters  are 
fully  as  useful,  but  depend  upon  it,  the  nuthatches  do 
their  share  in  preserving  our  forests  and  orchards. 

The  white-breasted  nuthatch  is  our  most  common 
species  east  of  the  great  plains,  breeding  from  the  Gulf 


60  Bird  Comrades 

States  to  the  northern  border  of  the  United  States  and 
to  New  Brunswick.  One  peculiarity  about  him  is  that 
he  breeds  throughout  his  range,  and  therefore  may  be 
found  as  both  a  summer  and  winter  resident  in  all  suit- 
able localities  within  these  boundaries.  In  the  winter, 
no  matter  how  old  Boreas  may  bluster,  he  is  one  of  the 
most  cheerful  denizens  of  the  woods  in  our  central  lati- 
tudes, calling  his  nasal  "yank,  yank,  yank,"  and  some- 
times indulging  in  a  loud,  half -merry  outburst  that  goes 
echoing  through  the  woodlands.  No  sound  of  the  sylvan 
solitudes  has  a  more  woodsy  flavor  or  is  more  suggestive 
of  vernal  cheer  and  good  will.  Sometimes  he  chatters 
to  his  human  visitors  in  the  most  cordial  tones  as  he  glides 
up  and  down  his  arboreal  promenade,  or  holds  himself 
almost  straight  out. 

A  hole  in  a  stump  or  tree  makes  Madame  Nuthatch  a 
cosy  nursery,  which  she  lines  with  feathers  and  leaves, 
making  it  soft  and  snug  for  her  downy  brood.  Here  they 
are  safe  from  most  of  the  prowlers  that  find  the  more 
exposed  nests  of  many  other  birds.  She  deposits  five  to 
eight  eggs  of  a  white  or  creamy-white  ground-color, 
speckled  with  rufous  and  lavender.  During  the  season 
of  incubation  and  brood  rearing  the  nuthatches  retire  to 
the  depth  of  the  woods,  and  are  quiet,  secretive,  and 
unsocial,  seldom  betraying  their  procreant  secrets. 

These  birds  have  another  habit  that  is  worth  mention- 
ing. Having  found  a  larger  supply  of  food  than  they 
require  for  their  immediate  use,  they  carry  morsels  away 
and  jam  them  into  all  sorts  of  holes  and  crannies  in  the 


The  Nuthatch  Family  61 

bark  of  the  trees.  I  have  watched  a  pair  for  an  hour 
diligently  laying  by  a  store  of  sunflower  seeds,  which  they 
had  found  at  the  edge  of  the  woods.  They  do  not  store 
a  quantity  of  provision  in  one  place  like  the  squirrels,  but 
deposit  a  tidbit  here  and  there,  wedging  it  tightly  into  a 
crevice  by  hammering  it  with  their  stout  bills.  Of  course, 
the  woodpeckers  and  tomtits  secure  many  of  these  half- 
hidden  goodies,  but  Master  Nuthatch  does  not  mind  that, 
for  he  evens  up  the  theft  by  appropriating  their  stores 
when  he  finds  them. 

The  white-breasted  nuthatch  may  be  known  by  his 
flat  body  and  broad  shoulders,  his  bluish  gray  coat,  black 
cap  and  mantle  (all  in  one  piece) ,  white  cravat,  shirt  bosom 
and  vest,  with  a  few  rufous  decorations  on  the  belly  and 
under  tail-coverts.  The  following  quotations  from  Wilson 
are  given  as  much  for  their  vivacious  manner  as  for  the 
story  itself: 

"  The  male  is  extremely  attentive  to  the  female  while 
sitting,  supplying  her  regularly  with  sustenance,  stopping 
frequently  at  the  mouth  of  the  hole,  calling  and  offering 
her  what  he  has  brought,  in  the  most  endearing  manner. 
Sometimes  he  seems  to  stop  merely  to  inquire  how  she 
is,  and  to  lighten  the  tedious  moments  with  his  soothing 
chatter.  He  seldom  rambles  far  from  the  spot,  and  when 
danger  appears,  regardless  of  his  own  safety,  he  flies 
instantly  to  alarm  her.  When  both  are  feeding  on  the 
trunk  of  the  same  tree,  or  of  adjoining  trees,  he  is  perpetu- 
ally calling  on  her;  and,  from  the  momentary  pause  he 
makes,  it  is  plain  he  feels  pleased  to  hear  her  reply. 


62  Bird  Comrades 

"He  rests  and  roosts  with  his  head  downwards;  and 
appears  to  possess  a  degree  of  curiosity  not  common  in 
many  birds;  frequently  descending,  very  silently,  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  root  of  the  tree  where  you  happen  to 
stand,  stopping,  head  downward,  stretching  out  his  neck 
in  a  horizontal  direction,  as  if  to  reconnoiter  your  appear- 
ance, and  after  several  minutes  of  silent  observation, 
wheeling  around,  he  again  mounts,  with  fresh  activity, 
piping  his  unisons  as  before.  .  .  Sometimes  the  "rain, 
freezing  as  it  falls,  encloses  every  twig,  and  even  the  trunk 
of  the  tree,  in  a  hard,  transparent  coat  or  shell  of  ice. 
On  these  occasions  I  have  observed  his  anxiety  and  dis- 
satisfaction at  being  with  difficulty  able  to  make  his  way 
along  the  smooth  surface;  at  these  times  he  generally 
abandons  the  trees,  gleans  about  the  stables,  around  the 
house,  mixing  among  the  fowls,  entering  the  barn,  and 
examining  the  beams  and  rafters,  and  every  place  where 
he  may  pick  up  a  subsistence." 

Our  charming  white-breast  has  a  little  cousin  called 
the  red-breasted  nuthatch  (Sitta  canadensis) ,  whose  under 
parts  are  rufous  or  reddish  buff  instead  of  white.  His 
crown  and  nape  are  black,  then  a  white  band  runs  back 
from  the  base  of  the  upper  mandible  to  the  hind  neck, 
and  below  this  a  black  stripe  reaches  back  in  a  parallel 
direction  and  encloses  the  eye.  His  upper  parts,  save 
those  mentioned,  are  bluish  gray.  He  is  considerably 
smaller  than  the  white-breast,  and  his  range  is  more 
northerly  in  summer;  but,  unlike  his  cousin,  he  does  not 
breed  throughout  his  range;  only  in  the  localities  which 


The  Nuthatch  Family  63 

9 

he  selects  for  his  summer  home.  Hence  he  is  a  migrant, 
dwelling  in  winter  in  the  southern  states,  and  in  summer 
in  the  latitude  of  Manitoba  and  Maine  and  northward, 
and  also  on  the  summits  of  the  mountains  as  far  south 
as  Virginia.  It  will  be  seen  that  the  breeding  precincts 
of  the  two  species  overlap,  while  in  winter  canadensis 
comes  down  from  the  north  and  takes  up  his  abode  in  the 
southern  part  of  the  demesne  of  carolinensis. 

While  the  white-breast  is  partial  to  oak,  beech,  maple, 
and  other  deciduous  forests,  his  little  relative  prefers  a 
woodland  of  pine,  being  very  fond  of  scampering  about 
on  the  cones,  clinging  to  them  with  his  strong  claws,  and 
extracting  the  seeds  with  his  stout  little  bill.  His  call, 
though  much  like  the  "yank"  of  the  white-breast,  is 
pitched  to  a  higher  key,  and  has  even  a  more  pronounced 
nasal  intonation,  sounding  as  if  he  had  taken  a  severe 
cold.  Besides,  he  gives  expression  to  some  cheery  notes 
that  seem  to  be  reserved  for  his  own  family  or  exclusive 
social  circles.  I  found  these  pretty  nuthatches  in  the 
pine  woods  on  Mackinac  Island  in  midsummer,  and  have 
good  reason  to  believe  that  they  breed  there. 

Cavities  in  trees  or  stumps  furnish  the  redbreasts  with 
nesting  places  suited  to  their  taste ;  but  they  have  a  cun- 
ning way  of  plastering  the  entrance  above  and  below  with 
pine  pitch,  so  as  to  make  it  just  large  enough  to  admit 
their  tiny  bodies  and  yet  too  small  to  let  in  their  enemies. 
In  this  respect  they  steal  the  laurels  from  their  white- 
breasted  kinsmen,  who  seem  to  have  no  means  by  which 
to  lessen  the  dimensions  of  their  natural  doorways. 

5 


64  Bird  Comrades 

9 

A  still  smaller  member  of  this  group  is  the  brown- 
headed  nuthatch  (Sitta  pusilla),  a  resident  of  the  South 
Atlantic  and  Gulf  states,  at  rare  intervals  wandering 
"accidentally"  as  far  north  as  Missouri  and  New  York. 
A  daintily  dressed  little  fellow  is  this  bird,  the  top  and 
back  of  his  head  a  dark  grayish  brown  with  a  whitish 
patch  on  the  nape,  the  remainder  of  his  upper  parts  being 
bluish  gray  and  his  under  parts  grayish  white .  His  favorite 
dwelling  places  are  in  the  pine  woods  of  the  south,  where  he 
is  on  the  most  cordial  terms  socially  with  the  pine  warbler 
and  the  red-cockaded  woodpecker.  A  most  active  little 
body,  he  scampers  from  the  roots  of  the  trees  to  the  ter- 
minal twigs  at  the  top,  inspecting  every  cone,  cranny  and 
knot  hole,  chirping  his  fine,  high-keyed  notes,  sometimes  in 
a  querulous  tone,  and  again  in  the  most  cheerful  and  good- 
natured  temper  imaginable,  now  gliding  up  a  tree  trunk, 
now  scudding  down  head  foremost,  anon  circling  in  a  spiral 
course. 

One  autumn  I  found  a  number  of  these  nuthatches 
associated  with  a  flock  of  myrtle  warblers  on  the  most 
sociable  terms  in  a  pine  woodland  not  far  from  Pensacola, 
Florida.  Now  they  were  up  in  the  trees,  now  down  on 
the  ground.  All  the  while  they  were  chirping  in  their 
most  genial  tones.  In  a  spring  jaunt  to  southern  Missis- 
sippi, I  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  nest  in  a  half- 
decayed  snag.  It  contained  four  of  the  prettiest  half- 
fledged  bird  babies  that  have  ever  greeted  my  sight. 

Oddly  enough,  our  tiny  clamberers  utter  a  loud,  shrill 
alarm-call  that  bears  close  resemblance  to  the  querulous 


The  Nuthatch  Family  65 

protest  of  the  sparrow  hawk  as  you  approach  her  nest 
or  young.  Doctor  Chapman  says  of  the  brown  heads: 
"They  are  talkative  sprites,  and,  like  a  group  of  school 
children,  each  one  chatters  away  without  paying  the 
slightest  attention  to  what  his  companions  are  saying." 

The  fourth  member  of  the  Sitting  subfamily  in  America 
is  the  pigmy  nuthatch,  known  scientifically  as  Sitta  pyg- 
m&a,  a  genuine  westerner,  not  known  east  of  the  plains. 
However,  in  the  Rocky  Mountain  district  he  is  an  abundant 
species,  his  range,  east  and  west  being  from  the  plains  to 
the  Pacific  coast,  and  north  and  south  from  the  Canadian 
boundary  to  the  mountains  of  Mexico.  Swinging  and 
gliding  about  among  the  pines,  performing  the  same  antics 
as  his  eastern  kinsmen,  he  utters  a  cheery  whistle,  that 
may  be  translated,  "Whit,  whit,  whit."  His  movements 
are  often  so  rapid  that  he  is  difficult  to  follow  with  the 
eye  as  he  flits  from  one  tree  to  another  or  dashes  amid 
the  branches.  He  scarcely  remains  quiet  long  enough 
for  you  to  note  his  markings  and  settle  his  identity,  but 
once  you  are  sure  of  him,  you  will  never  mistake  him 
for  another  bird. 

In  Colorado  there  is  little  of  a  migratory  movement 
even  up  and  down  the  mountains  among  these  interest- 
ing bir diets.  In  the  winter  a  few  descend  from  the  heights 
and  dwell  on  the  plains,  where  the  weather  is  not  so  rigor- 
ous. On  the  approach  of  spring  they  again  hie  up  into 
the  mountains,  spending  the  summer  there  and  rearing 
their  pretty  bairns.  However,  the  majority  of  them 
remain  in  the  mountains  all  winter,  braving  the  bitterest 


66  Bird  Comrades 

and  fiercest  storms,  often  at  an  altitude  of  8,000  feet. 
Their  breeding  range  is  from  6,000  to  10,000  feet,  the  latter 
elevation  being  only  a  little  below  the  timber  line. 

In  spite  of  his  unique  and  interesting  habits,  the  poets 
have  scarcely  begun  to  chant  the  praises  of  the  American 
nuthatch.  One  of  the  best  tributes  I  have  been  able  to 
find  is  from  the  pen  of  Edith  Thomas,  who  apostrophizes 
our  bird  in  this  way: 

''Shrewd  little  haunter  of  woods  all  gray, 
Whom  I  meet  on  my  walk  of  a  winter  day, 
You're  busy  inspecting  each  cranny  and  hole 
In  the  ragged  bark  of  yon  hickory  bole; 
You  intent  on  your  task,  and  I  on  the  law 
Of  your  wonderful  head  and  gymnastic  claw! 

1  The  woodpecker  well  may  despair  of  this  feat — 
Only  the  fly  with  you  can  compete! 
So  much  is  clear;   but  I  fain  would  know 
How  you  can  so  reckless  and  fearless  go, 
Head  upward,  head  downward,  all  one  to  you, 
Zenith  and  nadir  the  same  to  your  view." 

We  have  now  described  the  American  nuthatch  quar- 
tette, and  will  turn  to  other  fields  no  less  inviting,  albeit 
more  remote.  The  nuthatch  of  central  Europe,  scientific- 
ally known  as  Sitta  cczsia,  is  closely  related  to  our  Ameri- 
can forms,  resembling  them  in  many  of  his  habits.  In 
studying  the  literature  of  the  transatlantic  species,  we  at 
once  stumble  upon  the  reason  for  calling  this  avian  family 
by  the  somewhat  peculiar  and  apparently  inapt  name  of 
nuthatch.  The  older  English  form  of  the  word  was  "  nut- 
hack,"  which  unfortunately  has  been  changed  to  "nut- 
hatch," a  word  that  gives  an  erroneous  impression,  for  no 


The  Nuthatch  Family  67 

bird  ever  hatches  a  nut.  But  with  the  last  syllable  "  hack  " 
the  difficulty  is  all  cleared  up,  as  his  habit  of  hacking  or 
chipping  nuts,  which  he  places  in  chinks  of  the  bark  or 
wall,  is  well  known. 

The  nuthatch  of  England  belongs  to  the  species  just 
named.  He  does  not  wear  a  black  hood  or  mantle,  but 
merely  a  black  ribbon  on  the  side  of  his  head,  enclosing 
the  eye.  His  upper  parts  are  bluish  gray,  save  the  outer 
tail  feathers,  which  are  black;  his  cheeks  and  throat  are 
white,  his  breast  and  belly  buff,  and  his  flanks  and  lower 
tail-coverts  chestnut  red.  A  graphic  English  writer, 
Dr.  W.  H.  Hudson,  gives  the  following  enthusiastic 
description  of  the  little  tobogganist  of  his  native  wood- 
lands : 

"  When  I  see  him  sitting  quite  still  for  a  few  moments 
on  a  branch  of  a  tree  in  his  most  characteristic  nuthatch 
attitude,  on  or  under  the  branch,  perched  horizontally 
or  vertically,  with  head  or  tail  uppermost,  but  always 
with  the  body  placed  beetle-wise  against  the  bark,  head 
raised,  and  the  straight,  sharp  bill  pointed  like  an  arm 
lifted  to  denote  attention, — at  such  times  he  looks  less 
Like  a  living  than  a  sculptured  bird,  a  bird  cut  out  of 
beautifully  variegated  marble — blue-gray,  buff,  and  chest- 
nut, and  placed  against  the  tree  to  deceive  the  eye.  The 
figure  is  so  smooth  and  compact,  the  tints  so  soft  and 
stone-like ;  and  when  he  is  still,  he  is  so  wonderfully  still, 
and  his  attitude  so  statuesque!  But  he  is  never  long 
still  and  when  he  resumes  his  lively,  eccentric,  up-and- 
down  and  sidewise  motions,  he  is  interesting  in  another 


68  Bird  Comrades 

way.  He  is  like  a  small  woodpecker  who  has  broken 
loose  from  the  woodpecker's  somewhat  narrow  laws  of 
progression,  preferring  to  be  a  law  unto  himself. 

"  Without  a  touch  of  brilliant  color,  the  nuthatch  is  a 
beautiful  bird  on  account  of  the  pleasing  softness  and 
harmonious  disposition  of  his  tints;  and,  in  like  manner, 
without  being  a  songster  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word, 
his  voice  is  so  clear  and  far-reaching  and  of  so  pleasing  a 
quality,  that  it  often  gives  more  life  and  spirit  to  the 
woods  and  orchards  and  avenues  he  frequents  than  that 
of  many  true  melodists.  This  is  more  especially  the  case 
in  the  month  of  March,  before  the  migratory  songsters 
have  arrived,  when  he  is  most  loquacious.  A  high 
pitched,  clear,  ringing  note,  repeated  without  variation 
several  times,  is  his  most  often-heard  call  or  song.  He 
will  sometimes  sit  motionless  on  his  perch,  repeating  this 
call  at  short  intervals,  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time.  Another 
bird  at  a  distance  will  be  doing  the  same,  and  the  two 
appear  to  be  answering  one  another.  He  also  has 
another  call,  not  so  loud  and  piercing,  but  more  melo- 
dious :  a  double  note,  repeated  two  or  three  times,  with 
something  liquid  and  gurgling  in  the  sound,  suggesting 
the  musical  sound  of  lapsing  water.  These  various  notes 
and  calls  are  heard  incessantly  until  the  young  are 
hatched,  when  the  birds  at  once  become  silent." 

The  nesting  habits  of  c&sia  are  quite  similar  to  those 
of  our  American  forms,  with  the  following  interesting 
exception:  The  doorway  of  the  cavity  constituting  the 
bird's  domicile  is  plastered  tip  with  clay,  made  viscid  by 


The  Nuthatch  Family  69 

the  nuthatch's  glutinous  saliva,  leaving  in  the  center  a 
circular  hole  just  large  enough  to  afford  entrance  and 
exit  for  the  little  owner.  Says  the  author  quoted  above  : 
"When  the  sitting  bird  is  interfered  with,  she  defends 
her  treasures  with  great  courage,  hissing  like  a  wryneck, 
and  vigorously  striking  at  her  aggressor  with  her  sharp 
bill."  Like  our  common  white-breast,  the  British  bird 
may  be  attracted  to  human  dwellings  by  furnishing  him 
a  regular  supply  of  food  suited  to  his  taste,  and  may  grow 
so  trustful  as  to  come  when  called,  and  even  to  catch 
morsels  thrown  to  him  in  the  air.  In  the  forest  he  often 
hammers  so  loudly  on  a  resonant  branch  that  his  tattoo 
is  mistaken  for  that  of  a  woodpecker.  The  interior  of  the 
nest  "  contains  a  bed  of  dry  leaves,  or  the  filmy  flakes  of 
the  inner  bark  of  a  fir  or  cedar,  on  which  the  eggs  are  laid." 

In  northern  Europe  another  form  of  the  nuthatch 
guild  is  found,  known  scientifically  as  Sitta  europea,  whose 
under  parts  are  white  without  any  washing  of  buff  on  the 
breast. 

The  Levant  furnishes  a  most  charming  addition  to  the 
feathered  brotherhood  now  under  consideration.  The 
scientific  gentlemen  have  christened  it  Sitta  syriaca, 
and  its  common  name  is  the  rock  nuthatch,  an  appellation 
that  is  most  appropriate,  for  its  chosen  haunts  are  rocky 
cliffs,  over  the  faces  of  which  it  scuttles  in  the  most 
approved  nuthatch  fashion,  head  up  or  down,  as  the 
whim  seizes  it,  clinging  with  its  sharp  claws  to  the  chinks, 
ledges,  protuberances,  and  rough  surfaces  of  the  rocky 
walls.  A  little  larger  than  its  European  cousin,  its  mark- 


70  Bird  Comrades 

ings  are  quite  similar.  In  Syria  it  is  common  as  far  north 
as  the  southern  shores  of  the  Black  Sea.  Although  some- 
what shy,  it  is  described  as  having  "sprightly  manners 
and  a  clear,  ringing  trill."  Odd  indeed  are  some  of 
nature's  evolutions,  I  had  almost  said  caprices,  for  the 
rock  nuthatch  is  just  as  much  at  home  and  apparently 
just  as  happy  on  its  bleak  precipices  as  is  our  merry  white- 
breast  in  his  umbrageous  home  in  the  oak  or  maple  forest. 

But  what  kind  of  nests  do  the  rock  nuthatches  con- 
struct on  their  limestone  walls  ?  That  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  features  of  the  life  of  these  birds.  One  writer* 
who  has  observed  them  in  their  native  haunts  describes 
the  rock  nuthatch  as  "  an  expert  clay  mixer  and  molder." 
The  bird  does  not  chisel  out  a  nursery  in  the  rock — no, 
indeed;  his  method  of  constructing  his  nest  is  as  follows: 
Having  found  a  little  hollow  or  indentation  on  the  rocky 
wall,  he  will  erect  a  cap  or  dome  of  mortar  over  it,  plaster- 
ing the  structure  so  firmly  against  the  surface  that  no 
rain  or  storm  or  predaceous  creeping  thing  can  demolish 
it  until  long  after  it  has  been  abandoned  by  the  little 
architect.  The  circular  base  of  the  nest  is  ten  or  twelve 
inches  in  diameter.  The  dome  is  not  entirely  closed  up, 
but  a  small  orifice  is  left  in  the  center,  upon  the  edges 
of  which  a  narrow  neck  or  funnel,  also  made  of  mortar, 
is  raised,  the  hole  just  large  enough  to  admit  the  body 
of  the  bird.  The  funnel  is  about  three  inches  long. 

The  building  material  employed  is  fine  clay  softened 
and  glutinated  with  the  bird's  saliva  and  mixed  with 

*The  writer  referred  to  is  Mr.  H.  C.  Tracy,  to  whose  charming  article  in  "  The  Wilson 
Bulletin,"  published  at  Oberlin,  Ohio,  I  am  indebted  for  all  my  material  on  the  rock  nuthatch. 


The  Nuthatch  Family  71 

plant  fibers,  for  the  little  mason  does  not  believe  in 
making  bricks  without  straw.  So  well  packed  is  the 
inch-thick  wall  that  a  stiff  knife  blade  must  be  used  to 
cut  through  it.  While  the  natural  color  of  the  adobe 
cottage  is  ash-gray,  and  therefore  harmonizes  with  the 
general  hue  of  its  surroundings,  and  also  with  the  mezzo- 
tints of  the  builder,  yet  he  sometimes  decorates  it  with 
the  gaily  colored  wings  of  moths  caught  in  the  chase  and 
attached  to  the  plaster  while  it  is  fresh.  The  rock  nut- 
hatch is  as  expert  a  mixer  of  mortar  as  the  well-known 
cliff  swallows  of  our  own  country,  and  his  adobe  dwellings 
bear  a  close  resemblance  to  theirs. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  European  nuthatch, 
while  nesting  regularly  in  tree  cavities,  sometimes  also 
chooses  the  crannies  of  rocks,  when  he  goes  a  little  more 
extensively  into  the  plastering  business ;  but  his  skill  is 
not  so  well  developed  as  that  of  his  oriental  cousin,  whose 
mud  cottage  is  a  model  of  its  kind. 


A    FEATHERED    PARASITE* 

NOTHING  could  more  clearly  prove  that  a  common 
law  runs  through  the  whole  domain  of  Nature 
than  the  fact  that  in  every  division  of  her  realm 
there  seems  to  be  a  class  of  parasites.     In  the  vegetable 
world,  as  is  well  known,  there  are  various  plants  that 
depend  wholly  on  other  plants  for  the  supply  of  their 
vital  forces.     And  in  the  human  sphere  there  are  parasites 
in  a  very  real  and  literal  sense — men  and  women  who 
rely  upon  the  toil  and  thrift  of  others  to  sustain  them 
in  worthless  idleness. 

In  view  of  the  almost  universal  character  of  this  law 
it  would  be  strange  if  these  peculiar  forms  of  dependence 
did  not  appear  in  the  avian  community.  We  do  find 
such  developments  in  that  department  of  creation. 
Across  the  waters  there  is  one  bird  that  has  won  an 
unenviable  reputation  as  a  parasite :  the  European  cuckoo 
relies  almost  wholly  on  the  efforts  of  its  more  thrifty 
neighbors  to  hatch  and  rear  its  young,  and  thereby 
perpetuate  the  species.  Strangely  enough,  our  American 
cuckoos  are  not  given  to  such  slovenly  habits,  but  build 
their  own  nests  and  faithfully  perform  the  duties  of  nidi- 

*Reprinted  from  Appleton's  "  Popular  Science  Monthly,"  with  additions. 

72 


COWBIRD 

Molothrus  ater 


A  Feathered  Parasite  73 

fication,  as  all  respectable  feathered  folk  should.  How- 
ever, this  parasitical  habit  breaks  out,  quite  unexpectedly, 
it  must  be  conceded,  in  another  American  family  of  birds 
entirely  distinct  from  the  cuckoo  group. 

In  America  the  cowbird,  often  called  the  cow  bunting, 
is  the  only  member  of  the  avian  household  that  spirits 
its  eggs  into  the  nests  of  other  birds.  The  theory  of 
evolution  can  do  little  toward  accounting  for  the  anom- 
aly, and  even  if  it  should  venture  upon  some  suggestions 
it  would  still  be  just  as  difficult  to  explain  the  cause  of 
the  evolution  in  this  special  group,  while  all  other  avian 
groups  follow  the  law  of  thrift  and  self-reliance. 

The  cowbird  belongs  to  the  family  of  birds  scientific- 
ally known  as  I  derides,  which  includes  such  familiar 
species  as  the  bobolinks,  orioles,  meadowlarks,  and  the 
various  kinds  of  blackbirds,  none  of  which,  I  am  glad  to 
say,  are  parasites.  The  name  Molothrus  has  been  given 
to  the  genus  that  includes  the  cowbirds.  They  are  con- 
fined to  the  American  continent,  having  no  analogues 
in  the  lands  across  the  seas.  The  same  may  be  said, 
indeed,  of  the  whole  Icteridce  family.  It  may  be  a  matter 
of  surprise  to  many  persons  that  there  are  twelve  species 
and  subspecies  of  cowbirds  in  North  and  South  America, 
for  most  of  us  are  familiar  only  with  the  common  cow- 
bird  (Molothrus  ater)  of  our  temperate  regions.  Of  these 
twelve  species  only  three  are  to  be  found  within  the 
limits  of  the  United  States,  one  is  a  resident  of  western 
Mexico  and  certain  parts  of  Central  America,  while  the 
rest  find  habitat  exclusively  in  South  America.  A  fresh 


74  Bird  Comrades 

field  of  investigation  is  open  to  some  enterprising  and 
ambitious  naturalist  who  wishes  to  study  several  of  these 
species,  as  comparatively  little  is  known  of  their  habits, 
and  indeed  much  still  remains  to  be  learned  of  the  whole 
genus,  familiar  as  one  or  two  of  the  species  are.  Their  sly, 
surreptitious  manners  render  them  exceedingly  difficult 
to  study  at  close  range  and  with  anything  like  satisfactory 
detail. 

Are  all  of  them  parasites?  Probably  they  are — at 
least  to  a  greater  or  less  degree — except  one,  the  bay- 
winged  cowbird  of  South  America,  which  I  shall  reserve 
for  notice  later  on  in  this  chapter.  We  might  assert  that 
our  common  cowbirds  are  the  parasites  par  excellence 
of  the  family,  for,  so  far  as  I  can  learn  from  reading  and 
observation,  they  never  build  their  own  nests  or  rear  their 
own  young,  but  shift  all  the  duties  of  maternity,  save  the 
laying  of  the  eggs,  upon  the  shoulders  of  other  innocent 
birds. 

These  avian  " spongers"  have  a  wide  geographical 
range,  inhabiting  the  greater  part  of  the  United  States 
and  southern  Canada,  except  the  extensive  forest  regions 
and  some  portions  of  the  southern  states.  They  are 
most  abundant  in  the  states  bordering  on  the  upper 
Mississippi  River  and  its  numerous  tributaries.  On  the 
Pacific  coast  west  of  the  Cascade  and  Sierra  Nevada 
mountains,  they  occur  only  as  stragglers.  The  most 
northern  point  at  which  they  have  been  known  to  breed 
is  the  neighborhood  of  Little  Slave  Lake  in  southern 
Athabaska.  In  the  autumn  the  majority  of  these  birds 


A  Feathered  Parasite  75 

migrate  to  southern  Mexico,  although  a  considerable 
number  remain  in  our  southern  states,  and  a  few  occasion- 
ally tarry  for  the  winter  even  as  far  north  as  New  England 
and  southern  Michigan. 

The  male  cowbird  looks  like  a  well-dressed  gentleman 
— and  may  have  even  a  slightly  clerical  air — in  his  closely 
fitting  suit  of  glossy  black,  with  its  greenish  and  purplish 
iridescence,  and  his  hood  of  rich  metallic  brown  covering 
his  head,  neck,  and  chest.  He  makes  a  poor  shift  as  a 
musician,  but  his  failure  is  not  due  to  lack  of  effort,  for 
during  courtship  days  he  does  his  level  best  to  sing  a 
variety  of  tunes,  expanding  and  distorting  his  throat, 
fluffing  up  his  feathers,  spreading  out  his  wings  and  tail, 
his  purpose  evidently  being  to  make  himself  as  fascinating 
as  possible  in  the  eyes  of  his  lady  love.  One  of  his  calls 
sounds  like  "spreele,"  piped  in  so  piercing  a  key  that  it 
seems  almost  to  perforate  your  brain. 

One  observer  maintains  that  the  cowbirds  are  not 
only  parasitical  in  their  habits,  but  are  also  absolutely 
devoid  of  conjugal  affection,  practicing  polyandry,  and 
seldom  even  mating.  This  is  a  serious  charge,  but  it  is 
doubtless  true,  for  even  during  the  season  of  courtship 
and  breeding  these  birds  live  in  flocks  of  six  to  twelve, 
the  males  almost  always  outnumbering  the  females. 
However,  if  their  family  relations  are  somewhat  irregular, 
no  one  can  accuse  them  of  engaging  in  brawls,  as  so  many 
other  birds  do,  for  both  males  and  females  seem  to  be  on 
the  most  amicable  terms  with  one  another,  and  are,  to  all 
appearances,  entirely  free  from  jealousy.  Who  has  ever 


76  Bird  Comrades 

seen  two  cowbirds  fighting  a  duel  like  the  orioles,  meadow- 
larks,  and  robins? 

In  obtruding  her  eggs  into  the  nests  of  other  birds, 
Madame  Cowbird  is  sly  and  stealthy.  She  does  not 
drive  the  rightful  owners  from  their  nests,  but  simply 
watches  her  opportunity  to  drop  her  eggs  into  them  when 
they  are  unguarded.  t  No  doubt  she  has  been  on  the  alert 
while  her  industrious  neighbors  have  been  constructing 
their  domiciles,  and  knows  where  almost  every  nest  in 
the  vicinity  is  hidden.  Says  Major  Charles  Bendire: 
"  In  rare  instances  only  will  a  fresh  cowbird's  egg  be 
found  among  incubated  ones  of  the  rightful  owners.  I 
have  observed  this  only  on  a  single  occasion."  From  one 
to  seven  eggs  of  the  parasite  are  found  in  the  nests  of 
the  dupes.  In  most  cases  the  number  is  two,  but  in  the 
case  of  ground  builders  the  cowbird  seems  to  have  little 
fear  of  overdoing  her  imposition.  Major  Bendire  says 
that  he  once  found  the  nest  of  an  oven-bird  containing 
seven  cowbird's  eggs  and  only  one  of  the  little  owner's. 

If  parasitism  were  the  only  crime  of  the  cowbird  one 
would  not  feel  so  much  disposed  to  put  her  into  the 
Newgate  Calendar ;  but  she  not  only  inflicts  her  own  eggs 
upon  her  innocent  victims,  but  often  actually  tosses  their 
eggs  out  of  the  nests  in  order  to  make  room  for  her  own. 
Nor  is  that  all;  she  will  sometimes  puncture  the  eggs  of 
the  owners  to  prevent  their  hatching,  and  thus  increase  the 
chances  of  her  own  offspring.  Whether  this  is  done  with 
her  beak  or  her  claws  is  still  an  open  question,  Major  Ben- 
dire  inclining  to  the  belief  that  it  is  done  with  the  claws. 


A  Feathered  Parasite  77 

Her  finesse  is  still  further  to  be  seen  in  the  fact  that 
she  usually  selects  some  bird  for  a  victim  that  is  smaller 
than  herself,  so  that  when  her  young  hopefuls  begin  to 
grow  they  will  be  able  to  crowd  or  starve  out  the  true  heirs 
of  the  family.  In  this  way  it  is  thought  that  many  a 
brood  comes  to  an  untimely  end,  the  foster  parents  hav- 
ing no  means  of  replacing  their  own  little  ones  when  they 
have  been  ejected  from  the  nest.  However,  I  doubt 
whether  the  cowbird's  impositions  are  usually  so  destruc- 
tive as  some  observers  are  inclined  to  believe.  I  once 
found  a  bush  sparrow's  nest  containing  one  cowbird  and 
four  little  sparrows,  all  of  which  were  in  a  thriving 
condition.  The  sparrows  were  so  well  fed  and  active 
that  as  soon  as  I  touched  the  nest  they  sprang,  with  loud 
chirping,  over  the  rim  of  their  cottage  and  scuttled  away 
through  the  grass.  They  were  certainly  strong  and 
healthy,  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  their  big  foster  brother. 
Before  they  flitted  away  I  had  time  to  notice  how  the  little 
family  were  disposed.  The  cowbird  was  squatted  in  the 
center  of  the  nest,  while  his  little  foster  brothers  and 
sisters  were  ranged  around  him,  partly  covering  him  and 
no  doubt  keeping  him  snug  and  warm.  They  were  fur- 
ther advanced  than  he,  for  while  they  scrambled  from 
the  nest,  he  could  do  nothing  but  snuggle  close  on  the 
bottom  of  the  cup. 

A  wood  thrush's  nest  that  I  found  contained  two 
young  thrushes  and  two  buntings.  All  of  them  were 
about  half .  fledged.  Being  of  nearly  the  same  size,  the 
queerly  assorted  bantlings  lived  in  apparent  peace  in 


78  Bird  Comrades 

their  narrow  quarters.  I  watched  them  at  frequent 
intervals,  but  saw  no  attempts  on  the  part  of  the  found- 
lings to  crowd  out  their  fellow-nestlings.  The  cowbirds 
were  the  first  to  leave  the  sylvan  roof  tree.  Thus  it 
appears  that  the  intrusion  of  the  cowbird' s  eggs  does  not 
always  mean  disaster  to  the  real  offspring  of  the  brooding 
family,  but  of  course  it  often  prevents  the  laying  of  the 
full  complement  of  eggs  by  the  builders  themselves. 

Even  after  the  youngsters  have  left  the  nest  the 
mother  cowbird  does  not  assume  the  care  of  them,  but 
still  leaves  them  in  charge  of  the  foster  parents.  It  is 
laughable,  almost  pathetic,  to  see  a  tiny  oven-bird  or 
redstart  feeding  a  strapping  young  cowbird  which  is 
several  times  as  large  as  herself.  She  looks  like  a  pigmy 
feeding  a  giant.  In  order  to  thrust  a  tidbit  into  his 
mouth  she  must  often  stand  on  her  tiptoes.  Why  the 
diminutive  caterer  does  not  see  through  the  fraud  I  can 
not  say.  She  really  seems  to  be  attached  to  the  hulking 
youngster.  By  and  by,  however,  when  he  grows  large 
enough  to  shift  for  himself,  he  deserts  his  little  parents 
and  nurses  and  seeks  companionship  among  his  own 
blood  kindred,  who  doubtless  bring  him  up  in  the  way 
all  cowbirds  should  go. 

It  is  surprising  how  many  species  are  imposed  on 
successfully  by  the  cowbird.  The  number,  so  far  as  has 
been  observed,  is  ninety,  with  probably  more  to  be  added. 
Among  the  birds  most  frequently  victimized  are  the 
phoebes,  the  song  sparrows,  the  indigo  birds,  the  bush 
sparrows,  and  the  yellow-breasted  chats.  Even  the 


A  Feathered  Parasite  79 

nests  of  the  red-headed  woodpecker  and  the  rock  wrens 
are  not  exempt.  Some  species,  notably  the  summer 
warblers,  detect  the  imposture  and  set  about  defeating 
the  purposes  of  the  interloper  by  building  another  story 
to  their  little  cottage,  leaving  the  obtruded  eggs  in  the 
cellar,  where  they  do  not  receive  enough  warmth  to 
develop  the  embryo. 

While  it  is  surprising  that  acute  birds  should  allow 
themselves  to  be  imposed  on  in  this  way,  perhaps,  after 
all,  they  look  upon  the  cowbird  as  a  kind  of  blessing  in 
disguise ;  at  least,  he  may  not  be  an  unmixed  evil.  They 
may  act  on  the  principle  of  reciprocity — that  "  one  good 
turn  deserves  another."  What  I  mean  is  this:  In  my 
rambles  I  have  often  found  the  cowbirds  the  first  to  give 
warning  of  the  approach  of  a  supposed  danger.  Having 
no  domestic  duties  of  their  own,  they  can  well  secrete 
themselves  in  a  tall  tree  'overlooking  the  entire  premises, 
and  thus  play  the  useful  role  of  sentinel.  This,  I  am 
disposed  to  believe,  is  one  of  the  compensating  uses  of 
this  parasite,  and  may  furnish  the  reason  for  his  being 
tolerated  in  birdland.  And  he  is  tolerated.  Has  any 
one  ever  seen  other  birds  driving  the  cowbird  away  from 
their  breeding  precincts,  or  charging  him  with  desperate 
courage,  as  they  do  the  blue  jays,  the  hawks,  the  owls, 
and  other  predatory  species?  He  evidently  subserves 
some  useful  purpose  in  the  avian  community,  or  he  would 
not  be  treated  with  so  much  consideration. 

A  young  cowbird  that  I  purloined  from  the  nest  and 
tried  to  rear  bv  hand  did  not  prove  a  pleasant  pet.  He 

6 


8o  Bird  Comrades 

was  placed  in  a  large  cage  with  several  other  kinds  of 
young  birds.  At  first  he  was  quite  docile,  taking  his 
food  from  my  hand  and  even  allowing  some  of  his 
leathered  companions  to  feed  him;  but  in  a  few  weeks 
he  grew  so  wild  and  manifested  such  a  fierce  desire  for  the 
outdoor  world  that  I  was  glad  to  carry  him  out  to  the 
woods  and  give  him  his  freedom.  A  young  red-winged 
blackbird  and  a  pair  of  meadowlarks  developed  a  differ- 
ent disposition. 

The  dwarf  cowbird  (Molothrus  ater  obscurus)  is  similar 
to  his  relative  just  described,  except  that  he  is  smaller 
and  his  geographical  range  is  more  restricted.  He  is  a 
resident  of  Mexico,  southern  Texas,  southwestern  Arizona, 
and  southern  California.  His  habits  resemble  those  of 
the  common  cowbird.  Another  bunting  having  almost 
the  same  range,  although  a  little  more  southerly,  is  the 
red-eyed  cowbird,  which  is  larger  and  darker  than*our 
common  cowbird  and  has  the  same  parasitical  habits. 

.  In  South  America  three  species  have  been  studied  by 
Mr.  W.  H.  Hudson,  who,  in  collaboration  with  Mr.  P.  L. 
Sclater,  has  published  a  most  valuable  work  on  Argentine 
ornithology.  One  of  these  is  called  the  Argentine  cow- 
bird  (Molothrus  bonariensis) .  It  is  a  blue-blooded  para- 
site, and  has  been  seen  striking  its  beak  into  the  eggs  of 
other  birds  and  flying  away  with  them.  The  males,  it 
is  said,  show  little  discrimination  in  pecking  the  eggs,  for 
they  are  just  as  likely  to  puncture  the  cowbird  eggs  as 
those  of  other  birds.  Every  egg  in  a  nest  is  frequently 
perforated  in  this  way.  These  buntings  lay  a  large 


A  Feathered  Parasite  81 

number  of  eggs,  often  dropping  them  on  the  ground, 
laying  them  in  abandoned  nests,  or  depositing  them  in 
nests  in  which  incubation  has  already  begun,  in  which 
case  all  of  them  are  lost.  However,  in  spite  of  this 
wastefulness  the  birds  thrive,  thousands  of  them  being 
seen  in  flocks  during  the  season  of  migration. 

And,  by  the  way,  a  description  of  their  habits  by 
Mr.  Hudson  has  thrown  interesting  light  on  the  subject 
of  migration  in  the  southern  hemisphere.  South  of  the 
equator  the  recurrence  of  the  seasons  is  the  exact  reverse 
of  their  recurrence  north  of  the  equator,  and  therefore 
the  breeding  season  of  the  birds  is  in  the  autumn  instead 
of  the  spring*  the  flight  from  winter  cold  occurs  in  the 
spring  instead  of  in  the  autumn,  and  is  toward  the  north 
instead  of  toward  the  south.  Thus,  in  February  and 
March  the  Argentine  cowbirds  are  seen  flying  in  vast 
battalions  in  the  direction  of  the  equatorial  regions— 
that  is,  northward — in  whose  salubrious  clime  they  spend 
the  winter.  As  our  northern  autumn  draws  near  and 
the  southern  spring  approaches  these  winged  migrants 
take  the  air  line  for  their  breeding,  haunts  in  the 
Argentine  Republic  and  Patagonia.  At  the  same  time 
the  migrants  of  the  northern  hemisphere  are  pressing 
southward  before  the  blustering  north  wind.  It  all 
seems  wonderful  and  solemn,  this  world- wide  processional 
of  the  seasons  and  the  birds. 

Naturally  one  would  expect  to  find  some  other  eccen- 
tricities in  this  aberrant  family  besides  that  of  parasitism, 
and  in  this  expectation  one  is  not  disappointed.  There 


82  Bird  Comrades 

are  two  other  species  of  cowbirds  in  the  Argentine  coun- 
try— the  screaming  cowbird  (Molothrus  rufoaxillaris) 
and  the  bay- winged  cowbird  (Molothrus  badius).  The 
latter  is  only  partly  a  trencher  on  the  rights  of  other  birds 
— only  half  a  parasite.  Indeed,  it  sometimes  builds  its 
own  nest,  which  is  quite  a  respectable  affair ;  but,  as  if  to 
prove  that  it  still  has  some  remnants  of  cowbird  deprav- 
ity in  its  nature,  it  frequently  drives  other  birds- -from 
their  rightful  possessions,  appropriates  the  quarters  thus 
acquired,  lays  its  eggs  into  them,  and  proceeds  to  the  per- 
formance of  its  domestic  duties  like  its  respectable  neigh- 
bors. Its  virtue  is  that  it  never  imposes  the  work  of 
incubation  and  brood  rearing  on  any  of  its  feathered 
associates,  even  though  it  does  sometimes  eject,  them 
from  their  premises. 

But  what  is  to  be  said  of  the  screaming  cowbird? 
Instead  of  inflicting  its  eggs  on  its  more  distant  avian 
relatives,  it  watches  its  chance  and  slyly  drops  them  into 
the  domicile  of  its  bay-winged  cousins,  and  actually  makes 
them  hatch  and  rear  its  offspring!  This  seems  to  be 
carrying  imposture  to  the  extreme  of  refinement,  or  possi- 
bly developing  it  into  a  fine  art,  and  reminds  one  of  those 
human  good-f or-naughts  who  "  sponge"  off  their  relatives 
rather  than  go  among  strangers. 

Before  closing  this  chapter  I  must  call  attention  to 
one  of  the  most  surprising  discoveries  ever  made  by  an 
American  observer  of  bird  ways.  It  was  reported  some 
time  after  my  article  on  the  cowbird  was  first  published 
in  Apple  ton's  "  Popular  Science  Monthly."  The  observer 


A  Feathered  Parasite  83 

was  Joseph  F.  Honecker,  whose  statement  was  printed 
in  " American  Ornithology"  for  June,  1902,  and  runs  as 
follows : 

"As  ornithologists  and  all  bird  students  think  and 
believe  that  the  cowbird  will  build  no  nest,  but  always 
lays  in  the  nests  of  other  birds,  I  am  glad  to  give  the 
results  of  my  experiments.  In  order  to  get  the  desired 
results,  in  the  spring  of  1899  I  secured  a  pair  of  cowbirds 
and  placed  them  in  a  large  cage,  cared  well  for  them,  and 
supplied  them  with  plenty  of  nesting  material.  To  my 
surprise,  the  female  built  a  nest,  laid  four  eggs,  hatched 
them,  and  reared  the  young,  and  on  July  twenty-eighth, 
young  and  old  were  given  their  freedom.  This  will  show 
that  the  cowbird  will  build  a  nest  and  care  for  its  young 
in  captivity,  while  in  its  wild  life  it  has  never  been  known 
to  do  so." 


A    BLUE    CANNIBAL* 

IN  his  coat  of  light  blue,  trimmed  with  white  and  black, 
bearing  his  crest  jauntily  atop  of  his  head,  the  blue 
jay  presents   an   attractive  picture.     And,  indeed, 
although  I  myself  feel  that  the   Baltimore  oriole,   the 
scarlet   tanager,    the   ruby-throated   hummingbird,    and 
many  of  the  wood  warblers  carry  off  the  palm  for  bril- 
liancy of  plumage,  there  are  persons  who  declare  that  the 
jay  is  the  most  handsomely  colored  bird  in  our  temperate 
regions. 

While  the  jay  dons  an  engaging  attire,  not  much  can 
be  said  in  the  way  of  eulogy  for  his  vocal  talents  or 
acquirements.  Many  of  his  calls  are  harsh,  penetrating, 
and  even  raucous.  Frequently,  too,  he  indulges  in  a 
great  to-do  over  nothing,  fairly  splitting  your  ears  with 
his  noisy  .cries.  I  have  said  it  is  a  to-do  over  nothing, 
though  Mr.  Jay  may  think  he  has  the  best  reason  in  the 
world  for  making  a  fuss.  Often  espying  some  coveted 
prize  on  the  ground  in  my  back  yard,  instead  of  quietly 
dropping  down  and  taking  it,  he  and  his  companions 
would  dash  about  in  the  trees,  swing  their  bodies  side- 
wise  and  up  and  down  in  an  excited  way,  and  scream 

*Reprinted  by  permission  from  "  The  Evening  Post,"  New  York. 


BLUE  JAY 

Cyanocitta  cristata 


A  Blue  Cannibal  85 

at  the  top  of  their  voices,  sometimes  drawing  me  out  of 
the  house  to  see  what  had  gone  wrong  in  Jaydom.  They 
seemed  to  be  determined  to  attract  the  attention  of  every 
person  on  the  premises  to  the  fact  that  they  wanted  that 
morsel  on  the  ground,  but  were  afraid  to  venture  down 
after  it.  Perhaps  they  meant  by  their  objurgations  to 
test  their  human  neighbors,  to  ascertain  whether  any  of 
them  were  prowling  about  with  a  gun  or  a  sling,  ready 
to  do  them  harm.  If  there  should  be  any  such  prowlers, 
probably  the  jays  meant  to  induce  them  to  come  out  of 
their  ambush,  to  show  themselves  in  the  open,  and  give 
their  * jayships  a  chance  to  escape.  Bird  psychology,  as 
you  will  have  occasion  to. note  more  than  once,  is  a  good 
deal  of  an  enigma.  How  often  we  would  give  a  hand- 
some bonus  to  a  bird  if  he  would  let  us  know  precisely 
what  he  was  thinking  about ! 

Although  no  musician,  the  jay  has  quite  an  extensive 
vocal  repertory.  Besides  his  loud,  challenging  call,  he 
frequently  utters  a  series  of  calls  that  have  a  pensive 
quality  and  that  fill  the  mind  with  an  indefinable  fore- 
boding, especially  on  chill  autumn  days  when  all  the 
woods  are  bare  and  gray  and  the  wind  is  moaning  through 
the  boughs.  Sometimes  when  a  jay  is  hidden  in  a  copse, 
he  utters  a  low,  scolding  sputter,  that  seems  to  express 
the  very  quintessence  of  disgust.  It  is  simply  his  way  of 
telling  you  what  he  thinks  of  a  man  who  goes  prowling 
about  without  leave  in  the  precincts  of  the  birds. 

Have  you  ever  heard  the  jay's  brief  musical  roulade? 
It  is  only  a  wisp  of  melody,  rarely  rich  and  suggestive, 


86  Bird  Comrades 

heard  a  moment,  then  gone.  You  know  something 
sweet  has  passed  by,  but  something  so  brief  and  elusive 
that  you  scarcely  know  what  it  was.  Long  after  it  has 
dropped  on  your  ear,  it  continues  to  haunt  your  memory, 
and  you  try  again  and  again  to  reproduce  it,  but  in  vain. 
It  has  a  kind  of  gurgling  quality,  as  if  the  bird  were  press- 
ing his  notes  through  an  aqueous  lyre,  if  such  a  concep- 
tion is  possible.  Besides,  I  have,  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion, heard  a  jay  warble  a  soft,  reserved  little  lay  that 
was  continued  for  many  minutes.  It  sounded  very  like 
the  song  of  the  brown  thrasher,  much  modulated  and 
partly  uttered  under  its  breath  —  a  sort  of  flowing,  ryth- 
mical  melody. 

A  question  that  disturbs  all  bird  lovers  more  or  less 
is  this:  Does  the  fine  white  vest  of  the  jay  cover  a  bad 
heart?  Is  he  really  a  thief,  a  nest  robber,  or  even  worse, 
a  cannibal,  in  plumes?  May  the  guardian  spirit  of  all 
feathered  folk  forbid  that  I  should  blacken  the  reputa- 
tion of  any  bird,  yet  honesty  compels  me  to  give  an 
affirmative  answer  to  the  foregoing  question.  I  hasten, 
however,  to  say  that  I  do  not  believe  he  is  as  black  as  he' 
has  been  painted  by  some  observers,  who  seem  to  delight 
in  making  out  a  verdict  of  capital  guilt  against  him. 
Although  a  predatory  bird,  he  is  not  engaged  all  the  time 
in  bloodthirsty  pursuits,  but  only  while  his  young  are  in 
the  nest  clamoring  for  food.  What  are  some  of  the 
proofs  of  his  vandalism?  I  will  mention  a  few  of  them. 

First,  almost  all  the  small  birds  make  uncompro- 
mising war  upon  him,  especially  in  the  breeding  season, 


A  Blue  Cannibal  87 

and  many  of  them  show  signs  of  dire  distress  when  he 
goes  near  their  nests.  They  often  utter  pitiful  cries, 
droop  their  wings,  and  the  bravest  of  them  dash  at  him 
savagely,  giving  him  many  a  cuff  on  the  head  and  back. 
The  wood  pefaee  and  the  kingbird  succeed,  I  think,  in 
driving  him  away;  but  the  vireos  and  warblers,  being  so 
much  smaller,  suffer  greatly  from  his  depredations.  If 
there  were  no  real  cause  for  it,  these  birds  would  not  be 
filled  with  panic  and  rage  on  account  of  the  jay's  pres- 
ence. There  is  strong  presumptive  evidence  that  they 
know  him  for  an  outlaw  only  too  well. 

The  following  incident  will  furnish  positive  proof  of 
the  jay's  cannibalistic  proclivities:  One  spring  my  little 
boy  brought  home  from  the  country  a  young  house 
wren,  thinking  it  would  make  a  delightful  pet.  It  was 
quite  well  fledged,  but  its  short  tail  and  white  mouth 
border  proclaimed  the  tenderness  of  its  youth.  Fearing 
that  the  little  thing  could  not  be  reared  by  hand,  as 
it  refused  all  our  proffered  tidbits,  and  chirped  con- 
tinually for  its  parents,  I  persuaded  the  lad  to  give  it  its 
freedom.  A  mother  wren  living  on  our  premises  seemed 
inclined  to  adopt  the  little  waif,  and  we  decided  to  put 
it  under  her  care.  No  sooner  was  the  youngling  let  out 
of  the  cage  than  it  flew  to  the  side  of  the  house  and  began 
to  scramble  up  the  brick  wall.  It  had  a  hard  tug,  but  at 
length  succeeded  in  reaching  a  resting  place  on  a  window- 
shutter  of  the  second  story. 

Presently  the  mother  wren  heard  its  calls  and  paid  it 
a  visit;  but  instead  of  feeding  it,  she  seemed  very  anxious 


88  Bird  Comrades 

to  drive  it  away,  knowing,  no  doubt,  that  there  were  pre- 
daceous  enemies  in  the  neighborhood.  In  her  attempts 
to  drive  it  into  hiding,  she  pecked  it  on  the  head  and  in 
the  mouth.  Then  she  dropped  down  into  a  thicket  and 
secured  a  green  worm,  with  which  she  flew  up  to  the 
chirping  waif's  perch;  but  I  could  not  make  out  that  she 
fed  the  birdling,  though  she  thrust  the  worm  toward  its 
open  mouth.  Soon  after  she  had  gone  off  the  second 
time,  the  little  bird  clambered  around  the  corner  of  the 
wall  to  the  lower  side  of  the  house,  where  it  rested  a  while 
on  a  narrow  shelf. 

All  this  time  my  boy  and  I  were  watching  it  intently. 
Suddenly  a  blue  jay  came  flying  over  from  one  of  the 
trees  of  an  adjacent  yard,  moving  in  a  rapid,  stealthy 
way.  First  it  plunged  into  an  apple  tree  at  the  corner 
of  the  house ;  then,  before  I  could  collect  my  wits  enough 
to  know  what  was  happening,  it  darted  over  to  the  brick 
wall,  seized  the  little  wren  with  its  bill,  and  bore  it  off. 
The  mother  wren  followed,  uttering  a  pitiful  chatter, 
while  the  little  victim  called  loudly  for  help.  The  blue 
kidnapper  darted  to  a  tree  in  my  neighbor's  yard,  where 
he  put  his  booty  under  his  claw  on  a  limb,  holding  it  by 
one  slender  leg,  while  its  body  dangled  below.  Hoping 
still  to  rescue  the  little  captive,  I  sprang  over  into  the 
adjacent  yard  with  a  loud  shout  and  much  waving  of 
my  hands;  but  my  vigorous  efforts  only  caused  the  jay 
to  pick  up  the  wren  in  its  bill  and  continue  its  flight, 
and  neither  wren  nor  jay  was  seen  by  me  again.  This 
incident  furnishes  unimpeachable  testimony  against  the 


A  Blue  Cannibal  89 

character  of  the  blue-coated  Robin  Hood.  There  was  no 
faltering  or  hesitancy  in  his  conduct,  but  he  seized  and 
carried  off  his  little  victim  as  if  he  were  to  the  manner 
born,  and  had  become  hardened  by  practice  in  depreda- 
tions of  the  sort. 

A  farmer  once  related  the  following  incident  to  me: 
A  pair  of  chipping  sparrows  had  built  a  nest  in  a  bush 
in  his  front  yard.  One  day  after  the  little  ones  had 
arrived,  he  heard  a  distressed  chirping  coming  from  the 
parent  birds,  and  on  going  to  the  front  yard,  he  caught 
a  blue  jay  in  the  act  of  picking  a  callow  bantling  from 
the  chippie's  nest.  Holding  it  in  his  bill,  the  jay  flew 
across  the  field  with  his  prize,  and  presently  returned 
and  bore  off  a  second  nestling.  By  this  time  the  farmer's 
ire  was  aroused ;  he  bolted  into  the  house  and  secured  his 
shotgun,  and  when  the  marauding  jay  came  back  on  the 
third  trip  on  robbery  intent,  the  man  brought  him  to  the 
ground  with  a  shot  that  ended  his  career. 

Yet  the  jay  is  not  wholly  bad — indeed,  not  even  half 
bad.  Before  me  lies  a  valuable  pamphlet  entitled  "The 
Blue  Jay  and  His  Food,"  written  by  F.  E.  L.  Beal,  Assist- 
ant Biologist  of  the  Department  of  Agriculture  at  Wash- 
ington, whose  researches  have  converted  him  into  some- 
thing of  an  apologist  for  our  blue  gentleman  in  feathers. 
He  dissected  the  stomachs  of  292  jays,  collected  during 
every  month  of  the  year  in  twenty- two  states,  the  District 
of  Columbia,  and  Canada.  After  stating  that  mineral 
substances  in  the  stomachs  examined  averaged  over  14 
per  cent  of  the  total  contents,  Mr.  Beal  says : 


90  Bird  Comrades 

"The  real  food  is  composed  of  24.3  pe.r  cent  of  animal 
matter  and  75.7  per  cent  of  vegetable  matter,  or  a  trifle 
more  than  three  times  as  much  vegetable  as  animal.  The 
animal  food  is  chiefly  made  up  of  insects,  with  a  few 
spiders,  myriapods,  snails,  and  small  vertebrates,  such 
as  fish,  salamanders,  tree  frogs',  mice,  and  birds.  Every- 
thing was  carefully  examined  which  might  by  any  possi- 
bility indicate  that  birds  or  eggs  had  been  eaten;  but 
remains  of  birds  were  found  in  only  two,  and  the  shells 
of  small  birds'  eggs  in  only  three  of  the  292  stomachs. 
One  of  these,  taken  on  February  tenth,  contained  the 
bones,  claws,  and  a  little  skin  of  a  bird's  foot.  Another, 
taken  on  June  twenty-fourth,  contained  the  remains  of  a 
young  bird.  The  three  stomachs  with  bird's  eggs  were 
collected  in  June,  August,  and  October,  respectively. 
The  shell  eaten  in  October  belonged  to  the  egg  of  some 
larger  bird  like  the  ruffed  grouse  and,  considering  the 
time  of  year,  was  undoubtedly  merely  an  empty  shell 
from  an  old  nest.  Shells  of  eggs  which  were  identified  as 
those  of  domesticated  fowls,  or  some  bird  of  equal  size, 
were  found  in  eleven  stomachs,  collected  at  irregular 
times  during  the  year.  This  evidence  would  'seem  to 
show  that  more  eggs  of  domesticated  fowls  than  of  wild 
birds  are  destroyed,  but  it  is  much  more  probable  that 
these  shells  were  obtained  from  refuse  heaps  about  farm- 
houses." 

Mr.  Beal's  dissections  are  very  significant,  proving 
that  the  jay  is  not  only  not  so  destructive  of  eggs  and 
bantlings  as  was  supposed,  but  also  that  he  destroys 


A  Blue  Cannibal  91 

many  noxious  insects,  and  is,  therefore,  a  bird  of  real 
economic  value.  The  great  bulk  of  his  insect  diet  con- 
sists of  beetles,  grasshoppers,  and  caterpillars,  with  a  few 
bugs,  wasps,  and  flies,  and  an  occasional  spider  and 
myriapod.  The  average  of  insect  food  for  the  whole 
year  was  23  per  cent,  varying  from  less  than  i  per  cent 
in  January  to  over  66  per  cent  in  August,  and  it  is  gratify- 
ing to  know  that  predaceous  beetles  and  tent  caterpillars 
form  a  large  part  of  the  jay's  bill  of  fare. 

His  demands  upon  domesticated  fruits  and  grains 
are  comparatively  light.  He  cares  more  for  acorns  and 
mast  than  for  corn.  The  last  he  does  not  greatly  relish, 
but  eats  it  chiefly  when  the  snow  covers  his  favorite 
food.  It  is  a  little  surprising  that  he  occasionally  varies 
his  diet  with  fish,  salamanders,  tree  frogs,  mice,  and 
shrews.  Mr.  Beal's  conclusion  is  put  in  the  following 
sentence,  which  closes  his  valuable  monograph:  "  In 
fact,  the  examination  of  nearly  three  hundred  stomachs 
shows  that  the  blue  jay  does  far  more  good  than  harm." 

An  important  question,  therefore,  from  more  than  one 
point  of  view  is:  Should  we  ever  kill  the  blue  jay? 
Perhaps  as  sensible  an  answer  to  that  question  as  can 
be  given  is  this:  We  should  by  no  means  engage  in  a  war 
of  extermination  upon  the  jays,  but  it  might  be  wise, 
when  they  become  too  abundant,  to  thin  out  their  num- 
bers somewhat  by  shooting  some  of  them  or  driving  them 
away.  It  can  scarcely  be  denied  that  if  they  are  per- 
mitted to  thrive  without  hindrance,  and  grow  to  large 
numbers,  they  will  become  sorely  destructive  of  the  eggs 


92  Bird  Comrades 

and  nestlings  of  more  desirable  birds.  I  assure  you, 
however,  that  I  make  this  statement  with  reluctance  and 
reserve,  for  the  handsome  blue-coat  is  one  of  our  most 
cunning  and  interesting  birds,  and  would  be  greatly 
missed  if  he  were  exterminated. 

The  blue  jay  is  also  a  plucky  bird,  as  I  discovered  one 
day  not  so  very  long  ago.  A  pair  of  jays  had  a  nest  in  a 
little  park  in  front  of  my  house,  and  one  day  one  of  the 
youngsters,  which  were  still  unable  to  fly,  dropped  to  the 
ground.  Fearing  the  cats  or  evilly  disposed  boys  might 
catch  the  little  fellow,  I  thought  to  do  him  and  his 
parents  a  good  turn  by  catching  him  and  putting  him 
up  in  one  of  the  trees  beyond  the  reach  of  his  enemies. 
After  quite  a  chase  I  succeeded  in  catching  him.  But 
the  parent  birds,  flitting  and  calling  in  the  trees,  did  not 
understand  my  well-meant  intentions,  and  so  one  of 
them  swung  down  and  struck  me  on  the  top  of  the  head 
with  so  much  force  that,  either  with  his  bill  or  his  claws, 
he  punctured  the  skin  and  made  the  blood  come,  leaving 
a  scar  on  my  crown  for  quite  a  while.  The  pesky  thing! 
I  think  he  might  have  known  that  I  was  his  friend — but 
he  didn't,  his  instinct  not  being  a  sure  guide  that  time. 
But  who  can  blame  him?  Not  an  hour  afterwards  the 
youngling  again  fell  to  the  ground,  when  some  children 
found  it  and  killed  it  without  the  least  excuse  for  their 
action.  In  such  a  case  how  could  the  parent  birds  dis- 
tinguish between  friend  and  foe  ?  They  found  their  little 
one  lying  dead  on  the  ground,  and  mourned  for  it  with 
heart-broken  cries. 


A  Blue  Cannibal  93 

Some  things  cause  a  great  to-do  in  the  jay  world. 
One  day,  while  I  was  living  in  Kansas,  the  skeleton  of  a 
jay,  with  the  feathers  still  attached,  was  found  in  the 
rubbish  of  an  ash-pile  in  my  rear  yard,  and  exposed  to 
view.  An  hour  later  a  half  dozen  or  more  jays  were 
flinging  about  in  the  peach  tree  above  the  feathers  of 
their  dead  comrade,  screaming  at  the  top  of  their  voices, 
"juking"  their  bodies,  as  is  their  wont  when  excited,  and 
glaring  at  the  disheveled  plumes  on  the  ground.  If  it 
was  a  funeral  service,  it  certainly  was  a  demonstrative 
one,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  their  grief  and  terror  were 
affected. 


A    HANDSOME    SCISSORSTAIL* 

IN  order  to  study  the  scissorstailed  flycatcher  (Milvulus 
forficatus),  of  which  some  friends  had  told  me. again 
and  again  in  a  glow  of  enthusiasm,  I  made  a  trip  to 
southern  Kansas  and  northern  Oklahoma.  Several  days 
passed  before  an  individual  of  this  species  put  in  appear- 
ance, as  the  scissorstails,  which  are  migrants,  had  not  yet 
returned  from  their  winter  quarters  in  a  more  southern 
clime,  and  so  I  had  to  wait  for  their  arrival. 

One  day  a  friend  and  I  were  driving  along  a  country 
road  over  the  prairie,  when  a  quaint  bird  form  went 
swinging  from  the  wire  fence  by  the  roadside  toward 
a  clump  of  willows  in  a  shallow  dip  of  the  prairie.  Dash- 
ing after  him,  I  heard  a  clear,  musical  call  that  proclaimed 
a  bird  with  which  I  had  not  yet  become  acquainted.  4 

In  a  few  moments  he  flew  from  the  tree.  My  binocular 
was  fixed  upon  him  as  he  went  flitting  across  the  field 
and  presently  alighted  on  the  ground.  My  surmise  was 
correct;  it  was  the  scissorstail  flycatcher,  one  of  the  most 
unique  and  handsome  birds  belonging  to  our  American 
avifauna,  one  that  merits  more  than  a  passing  notice. 
To  see  him  perched  on  a  fence,  or  swinging  gracefully 
through  the  air,  and  hear  his  bell-like  calls  and  whistles 

*Reprinted  by  permission  from  "American  Ornithology,"  with  important  additions. 

9-4 


A  Handsome  Scissor  stall  95 

makes  you  feel  as  if  you  were  suddenly  transported  to  a 
foreign  land,  like  Australia  or  Borneo,  where  so  many 
feathered  curios  are  to  be  found. 

In  a  fever  of  -excitement  I  followed  the  bird,  which 
presently  flew  back  to  the  fence  by  the  roadside.  He 
flitted  from  point  to  point  as  my  friend  and  I  slowly  pur- 
sued him,  giving  us  an  exhibition  of  his  scissoring  process. 
Sometimes  he  would  alight  on  a  post,  then  on  the  barbed 
wire,  usually  sitting  flat  on  his  breast.  When  open,  the 
tail  is  bicolored,  the  outer  border  all  around  being  white 
and  the  inner  black.  His  general  color  is  hoafy  ash, 
paler,  almost  white,  below,  giving  out  a  slight  iridescence 
in  the  sunshine;  his  wings  are  blackish,  with  white  trim- 
mings; his  flanks  are  stained  with  salmon-red,  and  when 
his  wings  are  spread,  there  appears  a  large  blotch  of  scar- 
let at  the  inner  angle  of  the  intersection  with  the  body. 
One  individual  that  I  afterwards  saw  wore  a  scarlet 
epaulet,  which  was  almost  concealed  by  the  other  plumes 
when  the  wing  was  closed,  but  was  clearly  seen  when  it 
was  extended.  An  orange  or  scarlet  gem  adorns  the 
crown,  but  is  so  well  hidden  by  the  other  crest  feathers 
that  it  is  seldom  noticed.  \ 

My  friend  and  I  were  privileged  to  witness  a  rare 
and  attractive  scissorstail  show,  more  gratifying  than 
any  circus  performance.  A  loggerhead  shrike  suddenly 
appeared  on  the  scene,  and  made  an  assault  on  the  fly- 
catcher. The  two  birds  went  gyrating,  zigzagging,  see- 
sawing through  the  air  in  a  perfect  jumble  of  white  and 
black  and  ash.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  shrike 


96  Bird  Comrades 

himself  makes  a  handsome  picture  on  the  wing,  and 
when  you  come  to  mix  up  a  scissorstail  and  a  shrike  in 
inextricable  confusion,  you  have  a  feathery  display  worth 
seeing. 

Nor  was  that  the  end  of  the  exhibition,  for  in  a  moment 
a  second  scissorstail,  the  precise  facsimile  of  the  first, 
appeared  from  somewhere,  and  the  two  flycatchers  com- 
bined against  their  enemy.  Then  for  a  few  minutes  there 
was  such  a  chaos  of  shrike  and  scissorstail  that  we  could 
scarcely  tell  which  was  which.  By  and  by  the  shrike 
wheeled  away,  when,  as  if  to  bring  the  gladiatorial  show 
to  a  climax,  the  scissorstails  engaged  in  a  set-to  that  was 
really  wonderful,  coming  together  in  the  air,  whirling 
around  and  around,  rising  in  a  spiral  course,  opening  and 
closing  their  beautiful  forked  tails  in  quick  succession, 
the  black  and  white  trimmings  flashing  momentarily, 
then  disappearing,  until  the  contestants  finally  descended, 
parted  in  the  most  graceful  manner,  and  alighted  on 
separate  fence  posts,  none  the  worse  for  their  melee. 

In  the  evening  I  returned  to  the  enchanted  spot,  but 
the  scissorstails  had  disappeared.  Not  having  had  my 
fill  of  these  charmers,  I  stopped,  on  my  return  home,  for 
a  day  at  Wellington,  Kansas,  where  I  was  so  fortunate  as 
to  find  three  birds  of  this  species,  who  permitted  me  to 
watch  them  to  my  heart's  content.  They  are  not  shy 
birds,  but  fly  in  a  graceful,  leisurely  way  from  post  to 
post  along  the  fence  as  you  walk  or  drive,  sometimes 
sitting  quietly  to  let  you  pass  by.  In  this  respect  their 
habits  are  much  like  those  of  their  cousin,  the  kingbird. 


A  Handsome  Scissorstail  97 

As  his  name  indicates,  our  bird  is  the  proud  possessor 
of  a  genuine  scissorstail,  composed  of  two  long,  slender 
prongs  that  are  spread  far  apart  under  certain  conditions 
of  flight.  Let  me  describe  the  process  minutely,  for  it  is 
unique  here  in  North  America  where  fork-tailed  birds 
are  rare. 

When  the  bird  starts  up  from  a  perch,  he  spreads 
apart  the  prongs  of  his  tail  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  give 
himself  a  spring;  then  he  closes  them  in  a  single  slender 
stem,  tapering  outward  to  a  point,  keeping  them  closed 
during  prolonged  flight,  and  just  as  he  sweeps  down  to 
another  perch,  he  opens  his  ornamental  scissors  again, 
shutting  them  up  as  soon  as  he  has  settled  upon  his  resting 
place.  He  does  not  open  and  close  his  tail  at  regular 
intervals  during  flight,  as  might  be  supposed,  but  keeps 
it  closed  until  he  descends  to  a  perch,  when  it  is  opened 
for  a  moment  in  the  act  of  alighting.  However,  if  he  has 
occasion  to  wheel  or  make  a  sudden  turn  in  the  air,  either 
for  an  insect  or  in  a  playful  prank,  his  scissors  fly  open, 
one  might  almost  say  spontaneously,  no  doubt  serving 
the  double  purpose  of  rudder  and  balancing  pole.  When 
closed,  the  tail  is  very  narrow,  looking  almost  like  a  single 
plume.  On  the  perch  (except  when  he  desires  to  shift 
his  position,  when  he  also  makes. use  of  his  wings)  his 
tail  is  closed.  Therefore  the  picture  of  this  bird  in 
Dr.  Coues's  "Key  to  North  American  Birds"  is  not  accu- 
rate, for  it  represents  our  bird  in  the  sitting  posture  with 
the  tines  of  his  fork  spread  apart.  If  the  wings  were  out- 
stretched, representing  the  bird  in  the  act  of  alighting 


98  Bird  Comrades 

or  shifting  his  position,  the  picture  would  be  true  to 
scissor stail  life. 

The  range  of  these  birds  is  somewhat  restricted,  and 
for  that  reason,  doubtless,  so  little  is  known  about  their 
habits.  According  to  Ridgway,  their  proper  home  is  in 
eastern  Mexico  and  the  southwestern  prairie  districts  of 
the  United  States,  though  many  of  them  come  north  as 
far  as  southern  Kansas  and  southwestern  Missouri  to 
spend  the  summer  and  rear  their  families.  In  winter 
they  go  as  far  south  as  Costa  Rico.  Restricted  as  their 
habitat  is,  it  is  curious  to  note  that  they  are  "  accidental" 
in  a  few  unexpected  places,  such  as  Key  West,  Fla., 
Norfolk,  Va.,  and  also  in  several  localities  in  New  Eng- 
land, Manitoba,  and  Hudson  Bay  Territory.  Prof.  W.  W. 
Cooke,  of  Colorado,  says  they  are  "  rare,  if  not  accidental," 
in  that  state.  To  show  that  our  birds  are  unique,  it  is 
relevant  to  say  that  there  are  only  two  species  of  scissors- 
tailed  flycatchers  in  North  America,  which  have  the  genus 
Milvulus  all  to  themselves.  The  other  member  of  the 
genus  is  the  forked- tailed  flycatcher  (Milvulus  tyrannus), 
a  resident  of  tropical  America,  migrating  north  normally 
as  far  as  southern  Mexico.  He  is  a  sort  of  southern 
twin  of  our  scissors  tail. 

The  nests  of  the  scissorstails  are  set  in  the  crotches  of 
trees  in  the  neighborhood  of  country  homes  on  the  prairie. 
Considering  the  size  of  the  birds,  their  nests  are  quite 
small,  not  so  large  as  those  of  the  brown  thrashers,  though 
the  cup  is  deeper  and  the  architecture  more  compact  and 
elaborate.  A  friend  describes  a  nest  which  he  found  on 


A  Handsome  Scissorstail  99 

a  locust  tree  about  sixteen  feet  from  the  ground.  It  was 
made  mostly  of  dry  grass  and  locust  blossoms,  with  here 
and  there  a  piece  of  twine  braided  into  the  structure. 
It  had  no  special  lining,  but  the  grass  was  more  evenly 
woven  on  the  inside  of  the  cup  than  elsewhere. 

From  three  to  five  eggs  are  deposited.  The  ground 
color  is  white,  either  pure  or  creamy,  sparingly  mottled 
with  rich  madder-brown  and  lilac-gray,  the  spots  being 
thicker  and  larger  on  the  larger  end.  While  the  nest  is 
undergoing  examination,  the  owners  circle  and  hover 
overhead,  much  after  the  fashion  of  the  red- winged  black- 
birds, expressing  their  disapproval  in  loud  and  musical 
calls,  and  displaying  their  rich  scarlet  decorations. 

My  descriptions  have  related  only  to  the  male  bird, 
whose  beautiful  forked  tail  is  nine  to  ten  inches  long,  and 
whose  colors  are  clear  and  more  or  less  intense.  His 
spouse  resembles  him,  but  is  slightly  smaller,  while  her 
tail,  though  forked  like  her  mate's,  is  fro,m  two  and  a  half 
to  three  inches  shorter.  The  salmon  and  scarlet  orna- 
ments on  the  sides,  flanks,  and  axillars  are  paler  than 
those  of  her  lord,  and  the  scarlet  spot  shows  very  indis- 
tinctly on  her  occiput.  The  young  of  both  sexes  don 
the  dress  of  the  mother  bird  during  the  first  season,  save 
that  they  fail  to  adorn  themselves  with  a  scarlet  gem 
on  the  crown. 

Like  all  the  members  of  the  flycatcher  group,  the 
scissorstails  capture  insects  while  on  the  wing,  making 
many  an  attractive  picture  as  they  perform  their  graceful 
and  interesting  evolutions  in  the  air. 


ioo  Bird  Comrades 

It  was  a  year  or  two  later  that  I  saw  a  scissor  stall  per- 
forming his  ablutions  in  the  north  western  part  of  Arkansas. 
How  do  you  suppose  he  went  about  it?  Not  in  the  way 
birds  usually  do,  by  squatting  down  in  the  shallow  water, 
twinkling  their  wings  and  tail,  and  sprinkling  the  liquid  all 
over 'their  plumage.  No;  this  bird  has  a  reputation  to 
maintain  for  originality,  and  therefore  he  took  his  bath 
in  this  manner:  First  he  perched  on  a  telegraph  wire 
by  the  roadside;  then  he  swung  gracefully  down  to  a 
little  pond,  dashed  lightly  into  the  water,  giving  himself 
a  slight  wetting,  after  which  he  flew  up  to  his  original 
perch  on  the  wire.  A  minute  or  less  was  then  spent  in 
preening  his  plumes ;  but  they  were  not  moist  enough  to 
suit  his  purpose,  so  he  darted  down  to  the  pond  again, 
making  the  spray  rise  as  he  struck  the  water ;  then  up  to 
his  perch  he  swung  again,  to  arrange  his  feathers ;  and 
this  was  repeated  a  number  of  times,  till  his  toilet  was 
completed.  It  would  not -be  safe  to  risk  saying  that  the 
scissorstail  always  takes  his  bath  in  this  way;  but  I  know 
this  one  did.  I  once  saw  a  kingbird  doing  the  same 
thing,  and  so  it  may  be  a  fashion  in  flycatcher  circles. 

I  am  minded,  in  order  to  make  this  monograph  more 
complete,  to  borrow  a  couple  of  paragraphs  from  Mrs. 
Bailey's  "  Handbook  of  Birds  of  the  Western  United 
States."  She  has  studied  the  bird  in  the  Southwest, 
and  gives  the  following  graphic  description  of  the  bird 
and  its  habits : 

"One  of  his  favorite  performances  is  to  fly  up  and, 
with  rattling  wings,  execute  an  aerial  seesaw,  a  line  of 


A  Handsome  Scissors  tail  101 

sharp-angled  VVWWV's,  helping  himself  at  the  short 
turns  by  rapidly  opening  and  shutting  his  long  white 
scissors.  As  he  goes  up  and  down  he  utters  all  the  while 
a  penetrating  scream,  Ka-quee-ka-quee-ka-quee-ka-quee- 
ka-quee,  the  emphasis  being  given  each  time  at  the  top 
of  the  ascending  line. 

"  Frequently  when  he  is  passing  along  with  the  even 
flight  of  a  sober-minded  crow,  and  you  are  quietly  ad- 
miring the  salmon  lining  of  his  wings,  he  shoots  rattling 
into  the  air,  and,  as  you  stare  after  him,  drops  back  as 
suddenly  as  he  rose.  He  does  this  apparently  because 
the  spirit  moves  him,  as  a  boy  slings  a  stone  at  the  sky, 
but  fervor  is  added  by  the  appearance  of  a  rival  or  an 
enemy,  for  he  is  much  like  a  Tyrannus  in  his  master- 
ful way  of  controlling  the  landscape.  He  will  attack 
caracaras  and  white-necked  ravens,  lighting  on  their 
backs  and  giving  tbem  vicious  blows  while  screaming 
in  their  ears." 


AN    ALPINE    ROSY    FINCH* 

THE  common  name  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
is  the  brown-capped  rosy  finch;  in  the  scientific 
works  on  ornithology  he  is  called  the  brown- 
capped  leucosticte.  He  is  certainly  a  bird  of  peculiar 
habits  and  out-of-the-way  preferences.  Should  he  send 
you  his  card  from  his  summer  residence,  it  would  read 
something  like  this:  "At  home  in  ^he  mountains  of 
Colorado,  from  10,000  feet  above  sea-level  to  the  summits 
of  the  highest  peaks."  There  is  only  one  other  bird  in 
Colorado  that  has  so  high  a  summer  range,  and  that  is 
the  white-tailed  ptarmigan,  usually  called,  in  hunter's 
parlance,  the  "mountain  quail." 

The  rosy  finch  is  slightly  larger  than  the  bluebird. 
His  general  color  is  light  brown,  suffused  with  a  beauti- 
ful pink  or  rosy  tint,  the  dark  shaft  lines  and  pale  edges 
of  the  feathers  of  the  back  giving  it  a  striped  appear- 
ance, 'fhe  forepart  of  the  top  of  the  head  is  blackish, 
and  the  cap  is  brown,  from  which  he  gets  the  qualifying 
adjective  of  his  name.  In  the  best  nuptial  plumage  the 

*Part  of  the  material  used  in  this  chapter  has  already  appeared  in  the  author's  work 
entitled  "  Birds  of  the  Rockies,"  but  it  is  here  printed  in  different  form,  that  of  a  monograph, 
with  a  number  of  additional  facts.  The  writer  feels  that  the  readers  of  the  present  volume 
will  relish  at  least  a  taste  of  bird  study  among  the  alpine  heights  of  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
The  article  is  reprinted  from  the  "  Denver  Post,"  whose  courtesy  is  hereby  acknowledged. 


An  Alpine  Rosy  Finch  103 

rosy  coloring  is  heightened  to  an  intense  crimson,  especially 
on  the  wings,  tail  coverts,  and  the  under  parts.  The 
female's  attire  is  paler  and  duller  of  tint,  the  pink  being 
sometimes  almost  obsolete.  Oddly  enough,  in  summer 
the  bills  of  these  birds  are  deep  black,  while  in  winter  they 
become  yellow,  only  the  tip  remaining  black  or  blackish. 

My  introduction  to  the  leucostictes  occurred  on  the 
summit  of  Pikes  Peak,  at  an  elevation  of  14,147  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea.  With  exhausting  toil  I 
climbed  the  peak  one  night,  and  the  next  morning,  when 
I  stepped  out  of  the  signal  station,  where  I  had  secured 
lodging,  a  flock  of  the  brown-caps  were  flitting  merrily 
about  the  garbage  heap,  helping  themselves  to  an  early 
breakfast.  Their  blithe  chirping  sounded  very  much 
like  conversation  all  among  themselves,  and  proclaimed 
two  pleasant  traits  of  character  —  cheerfulness  and  good 
temper.  It  was  evident  that  they  were  happy  and 
contented  in  their  alpine  home,  in  the  upper  story  of 
the  world,  the  rare,  cool,  exhilarating  air,  the  majestic 
panoramas,  and  the  unlimited  freedom  all  contributing 
to  the  blithesomeness  of  their  spirits.  The  keepers  of  the 
signal  station  told  me  that  the  birds  came  to  the  refuse 
pile  every  day  for  their  meals. 

Two  years  later,  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  June,  a 
friend  and  I  clambered  up  Grays  Peak,  which  is  several 
hundred  feet  higher  than  Pikes  Peak.  It  was  a  long 
and  toilsome  climb,  winding  about  the  snowbeds  of  the 
mountain  side.  Sometimes  we  scaled  straight  up  the 
acclivity  on  "all  fours,"  throwing  ourselves  down  on  the 


104  Bird  Comrades 

rocks  at  frequent  intervals  to  rest  our  aching  limbs  and 
fill  our  lungs  with  the  rarefied  air;  up  and  up  and  up, 
until  at  last,  with  a  long  pull  and  a  strong  pull,  we  stood 
on  the  sky-haunting  ridge  above  all  the  surrounding 
elevations,  looking  (Jown  upon  the  rest  of  the  world, 
which  seemed  to  be  crouching  at  our  feet. 

Long  before  we  reached  the  summit  we  were  saluted 
by  a  new  bird  voice  —  one  that  had  not  been -heard 
farther  down  the  mountain.  It  was  a  cordial  chirp, 
which  seemed  to  bid  us  welcome  to  the  alpine  region  and 
to  assure  us  that  there  was  no  risk  in  climbing  to  these 
sky-aspiring  summits.  A  glance  proved  that  our  little 
salutarian  was  the  brown-capped  rosy  finch,  which  I  had 
not  seen  since  my  ascent  of  Pikes  Peak.  Down  in  the 
green,  copsy  valley  at  the  base  of  the  mountain  we  had 
met  with  the  white-crowned  sparrows  and  Wilson  and 
Audubon  warblers ;  then,  as  we  began  to  climb  the  steep 
shoulder  of  the  mountain,  the  American  pipits  had  become 
our  comrades,  accompanying  us  about  half  way  up  the 
elevation;  now  all  other  birds  had  disappeared  and  we 
entered  the  arctic  precincts  of  the  leucostictes,  which,  like 
a  gallant  bodyguard,  escorted  us  to  the  summit,  cheering 
us  on  with  their  friendly  chirping.  The  bailiwicks  of  the 
pipits  and  the  rosy  finches  slightly  overlapped,  as  did 
also  those  of  the  pipits  and  the  white-crowned  sparrows 
near  the  great  mountain's  base.  However,  no  pipits 
ventured  to  the  upper  story  of  this  elevated  region  —  at 
least,  not  at  the  time  of  our  visit,  although  they  may 
have  ascended  to  the  summit  later  in  the  season. 


An  Alpine  Rosy  Finch  105 

How  blithe  and  cheerful  were  the  pretty  leucostictes ! 
Now  they  darted  fearlessly  about  in  the  air  over  the 
summit  and  the  gorges ;  now  they  alighted  on  the  wall  of 
the  dilapidated  old  signal  station,  and  anon  hopped  and 
flitted  about  over  the  extensive  snow  beds,  picking  up 
dainties  that  were  evidently  to  their  taste,  all  the  while 
beguiling  the  time  with  their  companionable,  half -musical 
chirping.  So  far  as  I  observed,  they  have  no  real  song. 
If  they  have,  it  is  strange  that  they  did  not  furnish  a 
sample  of  their  lyrical  gifts  on  so  calm  and  sweet  a  sum- 
mer day  in  the  season  of  courtship. 

What  billsome  morsels  did  they  find  on  the  snow? 
We  examined  their  white  tablecloth  and  found  a  number 
of  small  beetles  and  other  insects  creeping  up  through  it 
or  crawling  around  over  its  surface.  Thus  Nature  spreads 
her  banquet  everywhere  for  her  feathered  children. 

One  cannot  help  falling  into  the  speculative  mood  as 
one  reflects  on  these  little  birds  and  their  remarkable 
habits.  Why  do  they,  of  all  birds,  choose  the  highest 
mountain  peaks  for  their  summer  homes?  Might  the 
cause  be  physiological?  Are  their  lungs,  muscles,  and 
nervous  systems  so  constructed  as  to  be  adapted  to  a  dry, 
rare,  crisp  atmosphere,  which  would  prove  injurious,  per- 
haps fatal,  to  birds  of  a  different  structural  organization? 
Who  can  tell?  At  all  events,  they  live  on  these  towering 
elevations  all  summer  long,  woo  their  plainly-clad  mates, 
build  their  nests,  and  rear  their  happy  families. 

Their  nests  are  set  amid  the  rocks,  and  are  quite  bulky, 
the  walls  composed  of  grasses  and  the  lining  consisting 


io6  Bird  Comrades 

of  soft  feathers.  In  order  to  procure  the  grasses  required, 
they  must  descend  at  least  to  the  belt  of  scant  vegetation 
just  below  the  region  of  bare  rocks  and  boulders.  Where 
they  get  the  downy  feathers  for  the  carpet  of  their  nur- 
series I  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain.  No  nest  has  yet 
been  discovered  below  an  elevation  of  12,000  feet.  Our 
little  bird  may,  indeed,  be  called  a  "  haunter  of  the  sky." 
The  height  of  the  breeding  season  is  in  the  latter  part  of 
July.  The  broods  having  left  the  nests,  old  and  young 
gather  in  small  flocks  and  range  over  the  peaks  and  ridges, 
feeding  on  the  insects  tp  be  found  on  the  fields  of  snow. 

No  less  interesting  are  the  habits  of  these  birds  in 
winter.  In  October  and  November  most  of  them  "descend 
only  to  the  timber  line,  where  they  remain  throughout 
the  winter,  save  as  they  are  driven  down  into  the  denser 
forests  by  the  fierce  tempests  of  this  arctic  region.  What 
feathered  Vikings  they  are !  They  do  not  even  make  for 
themselves  snow  huts  for  protection  from  the  winter 
storms.  However,  a  few  descend  almost  to  the  base  of 
the  foothills,  while  others — perhaps  the  less  hardy — seek 
a  blander  climate  in  the  northern  part  of  Mexico. 

There  are  in  North  America  four  other  species  of  the 
genus  Leucosticte;  the  Aleutian,  whose  habitat  is  the  Aleu- 
tian and  Prybilof  islands  and  east  as  far  as-  the  island 
of  Kadiak;  the  gray-crowned,  which  breeds  in  British 
America  near  the  Rooky  Mountains,  comes  to  Colorado 
in  winter,  and  has  been  taken  as  far  east  as  western  Iowa ; 
the  Hepburn,  dwelling  chiefly  in  the  mountain  ranges  of 
the  Pacific  coast,  breeding  mostly  in  the  far  North,  and  in 


An  Alpine  Rosy  Finch  107 

winter  coming  as  far  south  and  east  as  Nevada  and  Colo- 
rado; and,  lastly,  the  black  leucosticte,  which  winters  in 
the  central  latitudes  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  whose 
summer  range  and  breeding  home  is  unknown  to  men 
of  science. 


HAPPENINGS    BY    THE    WAY 

IF  one  were  to  keep  on  writing  monographs  of  all  our 
interesting  avian  species,  the  books  that  would  result 
would  make  a  good-sized  library.  The  few  examples 
that  have  been  given  will  illustrate  what  can  be  done  in 
this  direction  with  the  help  of  the  field  glass  and  the 
handbook.  A  few  chapters  will  now  be  given  on  what 
might  be  called  "odds  and  ends  of  bird  life,"  and  these 
are  written  not  only  for  the  information  they  may  im- 
part, but  also  for  the  purpose  of  showing  how  many  inter- 
esting facts  can  be  gathered  along  the  way  by  the  method 
of  bird  study  commended  in  our  opening  chapter. 

The  prince  of  American  ornithologists,  Dr.  Elliott 
Coues,  has  somewhere  said  that  he  would  travel  a  long 
distance  to  discover  a  new  kind  of  bird,  or  even  to  ascer- 
tain a  new  fact  about  a  familiar  species.  I  would  applaud 
and  echo  that  sentiment,  for  by  all  means  let  us  have 
bird  news  that  really  is  news,  instead  of  revamping  the 
familiar  facts  again  and  again,  as  some  amateurish 
writers  do.  While  I  am  not  able  to  add  any  new  species 
to  science,  I  have  made  note  of  many  pleasing  incidents 
in  the  bird  realm,  and  these,  I  venture  to  hope,  may  be 
of  not  a  little  general  interest. 

108 


Happenings  by  the  Way  109 

There  is  the  companionable  white-breasted  nuthatch, 
which  goes  scudding  up  and  down  the  tree  trunks  with 
as  much  ease  and  aplomb  as  a  fly  gliding  over  a  window- 
pane.  I  have  already  told  you  something  about  him. 
I  had  long  been  aware  that  he  wedged  grains  of  corn,  sun- 
flower seeds,  and  kernels  of  nuts  in  the  crannies  of  the 
bark ;  but  one  day  he  invented  a  trick  that  was  a  surprise 
to  me.  It  occurred  at  a  summer  resort  in  northern  Indi- 
ana, where  I  noticed  a  nuthatch  hitching  up  and  down 
and  around  the  slender  stem  of  a  sapling,  pausing  at  inter- 
vals to  thrust  something  into  the  crevices  of  the  bark. 
My  curiosity  led  me  to  pry  into  the  bird's  affairs.  Step- 
ping smartly  forward,  .1  drove  him  away,  not  heeding 
his  vigorous  protest  of  "yank,  yank,"  and  examined  the 
bark  of  the  sapling.  What  did  I  discover?  A  colony  of 
black  ants  were  scuttling  up  and  down  the  tree,  appar- 
ently under  stress  of  great  excitement;  and  good  reason 
they  had,  for  here  and  there  one  of  their  number  was 
tightly  wedged  into  a  chink  of  the  bark,  often  doubled 
up  into  a  bow  or  an  angle.  They  were  not  killed,  at  least 
not  all  of  them,  for  they  were  still  wiggling  their  legs  and 
antennae;  but  they  were  evidently  benumbed,  or  some 
of  their  backs  were  broken,  and  they  were  fastened  so 
securely  in  the  fissures  that  they  could  not  escape.  Does 
it  not  look  as  if  the  forehanded  nuthatch  was  laying  by 
a  supply  of  ants  for  a  coming  time  of  hunger? 

One  day  a  family  of  wood  pewees  visited  the  dooryard 
of  my  tent.  A  multitude  of  gnats  circling  about  in  the 
air,  seemed  to  be  precisely  to  the  taste  of  the  pewee 


no  Bird  Comrades 

parents  and  their  hungry  bairns.  The  bantlings  sat 
chirping  in  the  saplings,  or  flitted  from  twig  to  twig, 
twinkling  their  wings  in  the  coaxing  way  that  is  charac- 
teristic of  young  birds,  while  the  papa  and  mamma  swung 
out  into  the  air,  nabbed  the  insects  on  the  wing,  and  flew 
back  to  the  trees,  describing  many  circles,  ellipses,  and 
festoons  of  rare  grace  and  beauty.  The  snapping  of  their 
mandibles  could  often  be  heard  as  they  closed  upon  the 
fated  insects.  Most  of  the  gnats  thus  captured  were 
thrust  into  the  mouths  of  the  young  birds,  the  parents 
dashing  up  to  them  and  feeding  them  without  alighting. 
As  lavish  a  minstrel  as  the  pewee  pater  Camillas  is  under 
most  circumstances,  that  morning  he  was  too  busy  to 
tune  his  wind  harp. 

Speaking  of  the  voracious  appetites  of  birds,  as  exhib- 
ited by  the  young  pewees,  which  never  seemed  to  get 
enough,  I  am  reminded  of  something  I  witnessed  one  day 
in  a  deep,  wooded  hollow.  A  red-eyed  vireo  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  branches  above  me,  holding  an  immense 
green  worm  in  his  beak.  Then  followed  a  tussle  for  the 
"  upper  hand"  that  was  worth  seeing.  The  bird,  holding 
its  squirming  victim  by  one  end,  proceeded  to  beat  it 
against  the  limb,  though  it  was  almost  too  big  and  recal- 
citrant for  him  to  handle.  Presently  the  vireo,  after  a 
good  deal  of  effort,  succeeded  in  passing  his  quarry 
through  his  bill  from  end  to  end,  thus  reducing  it  to  some- 
what smaller  dimensions.  Still,  it  was  a  large  morsel  for 
so  small  a  diner. 

However,  there  were  some  intimations  that  the  bird 


Happenings  by  the  Way  in 

intended  to  bolt  the  worm  whole.  And  that  was  just 
what  he  was  planning  to  do !  What  a  struggle  ensued !  I 
would  have  wagered  that  the  little  gourmand  had  reck- 
oned without  his  host  when  he  undertook  to  swallow  that 
immense,  worm.  He  twisted  his  neck  this  way  and  that, 
gulped  and  squeezed  and  pried,  until  I  feared  he  would 
burst  his  throat  open.  At  length  the  worm  was  partly 
bolted,  but  it  seemed  to  stick  fast,  and  the  bird  stood 
there  with  his  mandibles  pressed  far  apart,  the  end  of  his 
dinner  bulging  out  of  his  mouth,  and  I  felt  uneasy  for  a 
time  lest  he  should  choke  to  death  before  my  very  eyes. 
But,  after  resting  a  minute,  he  gave  his  neck  a  number 
of  convulsive  twists,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  forcing  the 
unwilling  worm  down  his  throat,  after  which  he  wiped  his 
bill  on  the  limb  with  a  self-satisfied  air  and  flitted  away 
as  happy  as  a  lark,  knowing  that  his  faithful  craw  would 
do  the  rest. 

A  slate-colored  junco  did  a  pretty  thing  in  the  woods 
one  day  of  early  spring — much  more  pleasing  to  see  than 
the  incident  just  described.  He  had  rinsed  his  feathers 
in  a  pool  of  the  little  stream  down  in  the  hollow,  and 
now  he  was  squatting  flat  on  his  belly  on  the  ground  in  a 
soft  bed  of  brown  leaves,  preening  and  primping  his  plumes 
with  his  little  white,  conical  bill.  Now  he  gave  his  quills 
a  deft  touch,  now  the  feathers  of  his  wing,  now  those  of 
his  dainty  breast.  Lying  there  in  the  sun  he  presented  a 
perfect  picture  of  feathery  laziness.  Many  a  bird  I  have 
seen  arranging  his  toilet  after  a  bath  while  perching  on  a 
limb  or  a  twig,  and  even,  as  in  the  case  of  the  brown 
8 


ii2  Bird  Comrades 

creeper,  while  clinging  to  the  bole  of  a  tree,  but  never 
before  did  I  see  one  doing  this  while  lolling  on  the  ground. 
He  was  not  sick  or  hurt,  simply  lazy;  for  when  I  went 
near  him  he  flew  away  as  chipper  as  a  bird  could  be. 

The  rambler  not  only  sees  many  of  these  pretty  bird 
ways,  but  he  sometimes  has  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  birds' 
expense.  During  one  of  my  outings  a  blustering  whirl- 
wind started  on  the  summit  of  a  small  hill  scantily 
covered  with  scrub  oak.  It  seized  the  dead  leaves  and 
twirled  them  about  as  if  in  a  spasm  of  anger;  then  it  went 
scurrying  noisily  down  the  steep  incline,  flinging  itself 
against  a  couple  of  large  brush  heaps  in  the  hollow  where 
a  number  of  fox  and  Harris  sparrows  were  concealed. 
They  had  imagined  themselves  safe  in  their  brushy 
covert.  Suddenly  the  whirlwind  •  struck  their  hiding 
place  with  a  clang  and  clatter,  sending  the  birds  in  a  wild 
panic  in  every  direction.  They  did  not  seem  to  know 
what  had  struck  them,  and,  as  the  wanton  breezes  tossed 
them  this  way  and  that,  they  expressed  their  astonish- 
ment in  loud  and  frightened  chirping.  All  over  and  no 
harm  done,  the  bird  lover  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter  at 
the  discomfiture  of  his  feathered  neighbors,  who  looked 
at  him  as  if  they  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  his 
untimely  hilarity. 

Then,  too,  one  cannot  be  an  observing  rambler  with- 
out stumbling  upon  some  exceedingly  odd  avian  pranks, 
as  the  following  description  will  indicate :  One  day  I  was 
sitting  on  the  steep  bank  of  a  wooded  ravine  watch- 
ing several  rare  little  birds,  hoping  to  discover  some  of 


Happenings  by  the  Way  113 

their  nests.  Presently  the  susurrus  of  the  humming- 
bird was  heard,  and  a  moment  later  two  ruby-throats,  a 
male  and.  a  female,  flashed  into  view  on  the  slope  below 
me.  The  tiny  madam  settled  on  a  twig  near  the  ground, 
while  her  ruby-throated  spouse  performed  one  of  the 
queerest  antics  I  have  ever  witnessed  in  featherland. 
He  began  to  swing  back  and  forth  in  an  arc  of  almost 
half  a  circle,  the  diameter  of  which  was  at  least  twelve 
feet,  just  grazing  his  mate  whenever  he  reached  the  lowest 
point  of  his  concentric  movements.  Back  and  forth  he 
swung  at  least  a  dozen  times,  looking  like  a  tiny  pendu- 
lum moving  in  an  immense  arc,  and,  oddly  enough,  the 
segment  seemed  to  be  perfectly  formed  every  time.  Had 
the  bird  wheeled  entirely  around,  he  would,  I  feel  sure, 
have  described  a  circle  and  not  an  ellipse.  The  move- 
ment was  exceedingly  swift,  and  might  well  have  been 
called  the  embodiment  of  grace.  Suddenly,  as  the 
diminutive  acrobat  reached  the  highest  point  of  his  arc, 
he  dashed  off  to  the  right  in  a  straight  line,  followed  by  his 
mate,  and  in  a  moment  both  had  disappeared.  Whether 
other  observers  have  been  witnesses  of  this  curious  gam- 
bol, I  am  unable  to  say. 

Have  you  ever  been  ill-mannered  enough  to  watch  the 
birds  going  to  bed?  I  remember  spending  an  evening  in 
the  woods  playing  the  role  of  Paul  Pry  on  my  feathered 
neighbors.  The  sun  was  just  sinking  behind  the  bluffs 
on  the  other  side  of  a  broad  river  —  the  Missouri  —  and 
the  moon,  which  was  half  full,  was  hanging  high  in  the 
blue  sky.  What  were  those  two  large  black  objects  over 


ii4  Bird  Comrades 

yonder  in  the  woods  ?  My  glass  soon  revealed  their  iden- 
tity —  a  pair  of  turkey  buzzards  perched  side  by  side  on 
a  limb,  one  of  them  squatted  flat  on  his  belly  ready  to 
take  his  first  nap.  My  curiosity  led  me  to  go  near  them, 
when  they  spread  their  broad,  sable  wings,  flew  a  few 
rods,  and  alighted  on  another  horizontal  bar.  There 
they  sat  as  long  as  I  could  see  them  in  the  thickening 
darkness,  turning  their  heads  now  and  then  to  see  whether 
their  ill-bred  visitor  was  still  spying  upon  them.  They 
made  no  efforts  to  conceal  themselves,  as  the  small  birds 
do  in  roosting,  for  they  knew,  no  doubt,  that  nothing 
would  carry  off  fowls  of  their  size. 

A  little  later  on  the  same  evening  a  whip-poor-will 
darted  up  from  the  roadside  and  flew  into  the  woods  a 
short  distance,  alighting  on  a  white  flag  of  good  size,  so 
that  I  could  plainly  see  his  dark  form  in  the  moonlight. 
Then  I  was  witness  of  this  uncanny  bird's  table  manners, 
which  were  entirely  unknown  'to  me  and  may  be  to 
others.  At  irregular  intervals  he  leaped  into  the  air, 
now  in  one  direction,  now  in  another,  captured  an  insect, 
and  flew  back  to  the  top  of  the  flag.  Some  of  his  evolu- 
tions were  quite  wonderful,  and  all  of  them  were  the  per- 
fection of  grace.  He  described  all  kinds  of  curves  and 
loops.  On  alighting  he  uttered  a  low,  hollow  chuck 
suggestive  of  the  sepulchral.  Another  notch  had  to  be 
cut  in  the  tally-stick  of  my  ornithological  journey — I 
had  learned  how  the  whip-poor-will  takes  his  nocturnal 
dinner  of  moths  and  beetles,  and  I  felt  that  there  was 
still  such  a  thing  as  news  to  be  gathered  in  birdland. 


Happenings  by  the  Way  115 

Most  birds,  however,  do  not  take  their  dinner  at  night, 
and  therefore  it  is  easier  to  watch  them  at  their  table 
d'hote.  One  day  a  red-headed  woodpecker  was  giving  a 
strapping  youngster  as  large  as  herself  his  noonday  meal. 
She  came  close  to  him  with  a  morsel  in  her  long  bill, 
and,  after  pounding  it  awhile  against  a  limb,  she  thrust 
it  into  the  screaming  youngling's  mouth.  But  she  had 
failed  to  reduce  it  to  a  swallowable  size;  it  stuck  in  his 
throat,  and,  do  what  he  would,  he  could  not  bolt  it.  It 
was  so  large  that  he  was  choking;  what  should  be  done? 
The  simplest  thing  you  can  conceive.  The  mother  bird 
reached  over  and  impatiently  jerked  the  refractory  morsel 
out  of  her  baby's  throat,  thumped  it  vigorously  several 
times  against  the  branch,  then  gave  it  to  him  again,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "Now  try  it!  I  guess  you  can  manage 
it  this  time."  And  he  did,  for  down  his  gullet  it  went 
with  very  little  effort.  Then  she  went  after  more  prov- 
ender for  his  spacious  craw.  Whenever  she  came  with 
a  tidbit,  she  would  first  drop  it  into  a  kind  of  pocket  in 
the  bark,  and  pound  it  a  while  to  reduce  it  to  a  proper 
consistency;  the  while  the  youngster  would  sit  near  and 
watch  her  with  hungry  eyes,  and  often  spream  in  his 
coaxing  way  and  twinkle  his  wings,  until  she  was  ready 
to  deliver  up  the  tempting  fragment. 

Once,  after  she  had  given  him  all  she  had  brought, 
he  still  opened  his  mouth  and  whimpered  for  more.  At 
this  exhibition  of  gluttony  she  lost  her  patience.  Would 
he  never  be  satisfied,  the  great,  greedy,  overgrown  lubber? 
He  was  simply  making  a  slave  and  a  drudge  of  her.  She 


n6  Bird  Comrades 

looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  savage  glitter  in  her 
dark  eyes,  then  began  to  peck  him  angrily  right  in  the 
mouth,  and  drove  him  peremptorily  backward  down  the 
limb.  Mother  patience  has  its  limitations  in  the  bird 
world  as  well  as  elsewhere. 

On  the  same  day  a  bank  swallow  was  feeding  her  little 
ones,  a  half  dozen  or  so,  which  were  ranged  on  a  willow 
stem  at  the  margin  of  the  river.  Every  time  she-  flew 
toward  them  they  set  up  a  vigorous  calling  to  be  fed. 
She  procured  her  food  by  skimming  airily  over  the  river 
and  catching  the  insects  that  rose  from  its  surface.  Hav- 
ing nabbed  one,  she  would  dart  with  it  to  her  little 
family,  and,  without  alighting,  and  scarcely  pausing  in 
her  swift  flight,  would  thrust  it  into  the  mouth  of  one 
of  the  birdkins.  Thus  she  fed  them  one  by  one  until 
she  had  gone  the  round  of  the  little  circle,  though  some- 
times, oddly  enough,  she  would  serve  the  same  imant 
twice  in  succession. 

The  little  family,  all  perched  in  a  row,  looked  very 
attractive,  and  I  was  watching  them  closely  most  of  the 
time.  Suddenly  the  mother  bird  disappeared,  and  was 
gone  for  several  minutes.  I  forgot  to  keep  my  eye  steadily 
on  the  youngsters  sitting  six  in  a  row,  and,  to  my  great 
surprise,  when  she  reappeared  they  had  left  their  perch, 
which  was  in  plain  sight,  and  I  could  not  rediscover 
them  for  some  time.  Finally,  however,  I  espied  them 
cuddling  among  some  leafy  twigs  a  few  feet  away,  where 
the  mother  resumed  her  duties  of  purveyor.  My  opin- 
ion is  that  she  had  begun  to  feel  uneasy  for  their  safety 


Happenings  by  the  Way  117 

in  the  exposed  place  where  I  could  see  them  so  plainly, 
and  so,  while  I  was  looking  elsewhere,  had  persuaded 
them  to  shift  their  position.  Now  they  were  partly 
screened  by  the  intervening  leaves,  and  she  felt  that 
they  were  secure. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  birds  have  a  language 
which  the  youngsters  soon  come  to  understand,  how- 
ever simple  and  inarticulated  it  may  be.  In  a  shady 
hollow,  one  day  of  early  spring,  a  pair  of  tufted  titmice 
were  supplying  the  wants  of  a  family  of  famishing  chil- 
dren, and  I  invited  myself  to  the  family  reunion.  The 
young  birds  had  left  the  nest  and  were  perched  in  a 
leafy  tree.  Most  of  the  time  they  kept  up  a  great  clamor 
for  food  —  or,  perhaps,  they  shrieked  merely  from  force 
of  habit ;  but  every,  few  minutes  one  of  the  parent  birds 
would  utter  a  shrill,  commanding  cry,  at  which  all  the 
noisy  clamorings  of  the  youthful  family  would  suddenly 
cease,  and  for  a  few  moments  perfect  quiet  would  reign 
in  titmouse  town;  then  the  hubbub  would  begin  again, 
and  continue  until  another  order  for  perfect  silence  was 
given.  So  far  as  I  could  see,  there  was  no  danger  from 
raptorial  foes  at  hand,  but  the  little  family  seemed  to  be 
in  training  against  the  approach  of  a  marauder. 

It  may  be  a  far  cry,  but  from  green-robed  spring  fancy 
yourself  suddenly  flung  into  the  lap  of  snow-bound 
winter,  to  look  upon  scenes  quite  different  from  the  fore- 
going. The  Frost  King  had  been  playing  a  good  many 
pranks  for  a  week  or  two,  and  once,  in  a  spasm  of  frigid 
ill  humor,  had  jammed  the  mercury  in  our  thermometers 


n8  Bird  Comrades 

a  dozen  or  more  degrees  below  zero,  and  had  held  it  there 
quite  too  long  for  our  comfort.  More  than  once  had  he 
shrieked  and  blustered  and  stamped  his  feet  incontinently, 
and  more  than  once  sent  his  legiona  of  wind,  sleet,  and 
snow  howling  through  the  leafless  woods.  Everybody 
in  our  central  latitudes  knows  what  an  explosive  old 
fellow  the  Frost  King  is,  and  how  fierce  and  savage  he 
can  become  let  the  mood  once  seize  him. 

Sometimes,  too,  by  the  hour  he  had  ground  his  ice 
crystals  to  powder  in  mid-air  and  hurled  them  to  the 
earth,  covering  its  surface  with  a  robe  of  purest  white, 
thus  proving  that,  with  all  his  rudeness  and  bluster,  he 
is  an  old  gentleman  of  aesthetic  tastes.  One  evening  his 
mood  became  blander,  and  he  dropped  his  crystals  from 
the  sky  in  large,  damp  flakes,  which  clung  tenaciously 
to  the  branches  and  twigs;  then  during  the  night  his 
breath  became  chilled  and  froze  the  snowy  cylinders, 
and  when  morning  broke  the  woods  were  a  miracle  of 
loveliness,  every  leaf  and  twig  bearing  a  ridge  of  gleam- 
ing pearls,  while  the  sylvan  floor  was  pure  white.  Soon 
the  sun  was  shining  from  an  unmarred  sky,  and  the 
snow-clad  earth  smiled  back  in  shimmering  recognition. 
It  was  a  day  for  worship  in  God's  first  sanctuary. 

Yet  it  was  a  day  for  watching  the  gambols  of  the 
birds,  and  such  occupation  by  no  means  interfered  with 
the  spirit  of  worship.  In  the  depths  of  the  woods  the 
white-breasted  nuthatches  were  holding  a  friendly  inter- 
view. How  affectionately  they  talked  to  one  another 
in  idioms  all  their  own,  saying  "  Hick!  hick! "  and  "  Yank! 


Happenings  by  the  Way  119 

yank!"  and  "  Ha-ha!  ha-ha!  ha-ha!"  which  may  mean 
anything  that  is  kind  and  cordial  and  confidential.  They 
were  either  playing  at  a  game  of  tag,  or  were  having 
a  peep-show  among  the  bushes,  hiding  for  a  moment  in 
some  leafy  cluster,  then  dashing  in  pursuit  of  one  another 
in  the  most  frolicksome  way.  I  crept  in  under  the  arches 
of  the  snow-clad  bushes  to  watch  their  caperings  more 
closely,  but  the '  birds  at  once  quieted  down,  and  went 
about  their  more  prosaic  vocation  of  grub  gathering. 
They  were  no  doubt  "aching"  to  frisk  about  among  the 
snowy  bushes,  but  would  not  indulge  their  playful  mood 
under  the  eye  of  a  human  spectator. 

Presently  one  of  them  was  seen  carefully  primping 
his  feathers  —  a  function  that  I  had  not  previously  seen 
a  nuthatch  perform.  His  plumes  seemed  to  be  really 
quite  damp,  and,  as  there  was  no  water  at  hand  —  the 
streams  being  mailed  with  ice  as  well  as  nearly  a  half 
mile  away --he  must  have  used  a  snowbank  for  his 
lavatory.  But  you  ask  how  he  arranged  his  toilet.  I 
had  several  times  seen  the  little  brown  creeper  clinging 
to  the  vertical  wall  of  a  tree  and  preening  his  plumes 
after  a  bath,  and  it  was  natural  to  suppose  that  his  con- 
gener, the  nuthatch,  being  also  a  bird  of  reptatory  habits, 
would  follow  the  same  formula.  But  not  so!  Instead 
of  clinging  to  the  upright  bole  of  a  tree,  Master  Nut- 
hatch perched  crosswise  on  a  twig  like  a  robin  or  a  chick- 
adee, and  smoothed  his  ruffled  plumes. 

After  this  interesting  interview  with  the  nuthatches, 
I  trudged  about  in  the  woods  for  some  time  without 


120  Bird  Comrades 

seeing  any  birds.  What  had  become  of  my  feathered 
neighbors,  my  companions  in  every  ramble  throughout 
the  winter?  Had  the  storm  driven  them  to  other  climes 
where  bland  winds  prevailed  ?  Oh,  no !  See  what  prudent 
creatures  they  were  that  wintry  day.  At  the  eastern 
border  of  the  woods,  where  the  sun  shone  warmly  and 
the  keen  westerly  breeze  was  broken  and  tempered,  my 
little  friends  were  found  in  goodly  numbers,  well  knowing 
where  the  Frost  King's  anger  would  be  softened. 

Here  were  nuthatches  and  chickadees  in  plenty,  and 
also  tufted  tits,  tree  sparrows,  j uncos,  downy  woodpeckers, 
and,  to  make  the  complement  as  nearly  full  as  possible,  a 
hairy  woodpecker  drummed  and  chir-r-r-red,  several  blue 
jays  complained  in  the  distance,  and  a  goldfinch  swinging 
overhead  threaded  the  air  with  festoons  of  black  and  gold. 
And  here  I  witnessed  a  new  and  pretty  antic  of  a  tree 
sparrow,  which  flew  over  from  a  cornfield  hard  by  and 
perched  on  a  dogwood  sapling  only  a  few  feet  away;  then 
it  plunged  its  beak  into  the  little  snowbank  on  the  twig 
before  it  and  ate  greedily  of  the  snow,  some  of  the  crys- 
tals clinging  to  its  mandibles,  just  as  the  crumbs  adhere 
to  the  lips  of  a  hungry  boy.  Had  the  exclamation  not 
been  so  much  like  slang,  I  would  have  cried  "  Next ! ' '  And 
there  was  a  "next,"  as  sure  as  you  live,  for  the  little  bird 
soon  flitted  to  another  twig  in  the  same  tree  and,  reach- 
ing up,  daintily  sipped  from  the  dripping  underside  of 
the  branch  just  above  and  in  front  of  it.  Its  thirst  having 
been  assuaged,  it  flew  over  into  the  adjoining  field  to 
resume  its  winter  feast  of  seeds  and  berries. 


Happenings  by  the  Way  121 

And  what  was  happening  over  in  the  field?  Some- 
thing worth  noting,  to  be  sure.  A. coterie  of  juncos  and 
tree  sparrows  were  breakfasting  on  the  seeds  of  a  clump 
of  tall  weeds,  a  few  of  the  little  feasters  perched  on  the 
swaying  stems,  while  others  stood  on  the  snow  on  the 
ground  and  picked  the  seeds  from  the  racemes  that  were 
bent  down  by  their  burden  of  crystals.  When  I  went  to 
the  place,  I  could  see  the  delicate  tracery  of  their  feet  on 
the  snow,  as  if  they  had  been  writing  their  autographs 
on  an  untarnished  scroll.  Two  tiny  footprints  at  regu- 
lar intervals,  one  a  little  before  the  other,  and  each  pair 
connected  with  the  next  by  a  slender  thread  or  two  traced 
by  the  bird's  claws  —  that  is  a  junco's  or  a  tree  sparrow's 
trail  in  the  snow. 

A  little  later  a  scattering  flock  of  tree  sparrows  were 
skipping  about  on  the  snowy  floor  of  the  woods,  picking  up 
at  quick  intervals  a  palatable  tidbit.  Birds  often  find  edi- 
'bles  on  the  surface  of  the  snow  when  our  duller  eyes  can 
see  nothing  but  immaculate  whiteness.  What  long  leaps 
the  little  birds  took  across  the  snow,  which  looked  like  a 
marble  pavement  with  fairies  dancing  upon  it!  Near 
by,  on  one  of  the  lower  twigs  of  a  thorn  bush,  a  sparrow 
sat  with  feathers  fluffed  up  and  wings  hanging  negli- 
gently at  his  side,  as  if  he  were  taking  a  siesta  after  a 
hearty  meal  of  weed  seeds  and  winter  berries.  Two  of 
his  companions  soon  joined  him  in  his  noonday  rest,  the 
trio  making  a  pretty  picture  sitting  there  within  an  inch 
or  two  of  the  ground. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  a  tree  sparrow  perpetrated 

I 


122  Bird  Comrades 

another  surprise,  proving  that  this  species  is  not  without 
character,  as  indeed  no  species  is.  He  leaped  to  the  bole 
of  a  sapling,  clinging  there  a  few  moments  like  a  chicka- 
dee or  a  wren,  while  he  pecked  an  appetizing  morsel  from 
the  bark;  then  he  dropped  down  to  the  snow  for  a  brief 
breathing  spell,  after  which  he  sprang  up  again  to  the 
sapling  for  a  few  more  bits,  repeating  the  little  perform- 
ance a  number  of  times. 

In  the  same  part  of  the  woods  a  company  ot  chicka- 
dees was  flitting  about  in  the  trees,  plunging  into  the 
little  snowbanks  on  the  twigs,  sometimes  standing  in 
them  up  to  their  white  bosoms,  and  often  brushing  a 
segment  to  the  ground,  thus  making  numerous  breaches 
in  the  white  drifts.  The  racket  they  made  with  their 
scolding  and  piping  might  have  been  called  a  musical  din. 
Deciding  to  watch  them  a  while,  I  flung  myself  down 
upon  the  snow.  This  act  was  the  signal  for  a  precious 
to-do  among  the  nervous  little  potherers.  Did  any  one 
ever  hear  or  read  of  such  a  performance  in  all  the  annals 
of  birdland?  What  in  the  world  did  it  mean  —  a  man 
lying  flat  on  the  ground  out  there  in  the  woods?  I  was 
highly  amused  at  the  hurly-burly,  and  decided  to  add 
still  more  variety  to  it.  Suddenly  I  sprang  to  my  feet 
with  a  shout.  Several  of  the  birds  dropped,  as  if  shot, 
into  a  thorn  bush  below  them,  where  they  set  up  a  hub- 
bub that  would  have  made  on  old-time  Puritan  laugh, 
even  at  the  risk  of  being  censured  for  levity.  By  and 
by  they  quieted  down,  and  one  of  them  began  to  whistle 
his  pretty  minor  tune  with  as  much  serenity  as  if  he  had 


Happenings  by  the  Way  123 

never  been  excited  in  his  life.  My  winter  outing  proved 
that  the  Frost  King  and  the  hardy  birds  often  go  cheek 
by  jowl,  as  if  they  were  on  terms  of  the  most  cordial 
fraternity. 


ODDS    AND    ENDS 

THE  ornithologist  is  always  interested  in  noting 
how  the  conduct  of  birds  of  the  same  species 
differs  and  agrees  in  different  localities.  In  a 
previous  chapter  some  of  the  differences  between  the 
avifauna  of  Ohio  and  Kansas  have  been  described,  but 
a  good  deal  still  remains  to  be  said,  teaching  more  than 
one  lesson  in  comparative  ornithology. 

At  the  beginning  of  my  studies  in  the  Sunflower  state 
the  song  sparrows  proposed  an  enigma  for  my  solution, 
whether  wittingly  or  unwittingly,  I  know  not.  In  Ohio 
they  were  the  most  lavish  singers  in  the  outdoor  chorus, 
chanting  their  sweet  lays  every  month  in  the  year,  sum- 
mer or  winter;  indeed,  their  most  vigorous  recitals  were 
often  given  in  February  and  March,  when  there  was 
dearth  of  other  bird  music. 

But  what  about  the  song  sparrows  of  Kansas?  The 
first  winter  and  spring  passed,  and  yet  my  numerous 
rambles  in  their  haunts  did  not  bring  to  my  waiting  ear 
one  first-class  song  sparrow  concert.  A  few  feeble,  half- 
hearted wisps  of  melody  on  days  that  were  especially  mild 
were  the  only  vocal  performances  they  vouchsafed.  To 
put  it  bluntly  and  truthfully,  I  never,  during  my  residence 

124 


SONG   SPARROW 

Melospiza  melodia 


Odds  ana  £nds  125 

of  five  and  a  half  years  in  Kansas,  heard  a  first-rate  song 
sparrow  trill.  Nor  is  that  all.  In  the  Buckeye  state 
these  birds  were  disposed  to  be  sociable,  often  selecting 
their  dwellings  near  our  suburban  homes,  visiting  our 
dooryards,  singing  their  blithe  roundels  on  the  ridge  of 
the  barn  roof  or  a  post  of  the  garden  fence.  Not  only 
so,  but  their  songs  were  often  heard  in  some  of  the  prin- 
cipal streets  of  towns  where  trees  were  abundant. 

Quite  otherwise  was  the  conduct  of  their  western 
cousins,  which  seldom  came  to  town  or  even  near  a  human 
residence  in  the  country,  but  kept  themselves  ensconced 
in  the  matted  copses  in  the  banks  of  the  Missouri  River 
or  in  the  deep  hollows  running  back  from  the  broad 
valley.  In  these  sequestered  haunts  they  were  quite 
wary,  usually  scuttling  out  of  sight  at  my  approach. 
True,  in  Ohio  many  individuals  also  chose  out-of-the-way 
places  for  habitats,  but  even  then  they  were  not  timid, 
for  often  they  would  mount  to  the  top  of  a  bush  or  a 
sapling  in  plain  sight  and  trill  sweetly  by  the  hour,  with 
never  a  quaver  of  fear.  At  rare  intervals  a  Kansas 
sparrow  would  visit  the  thicket  on  the  vacant  lot  near 
my  house,  but,  my !  how  shy  he  was !  And  as  for  singing, 
he  would  only  squeak  a  little  score. 

Wondering  at  the  reticence  of  the  Kansas  sparrows, 
I  wrote  to  a  friend  living  in  Springfield,  Ohio,  my  former 
home,  and  inquired  what  the  song  sparrows  were  doing 
in  that  locality.  His  reply  was  that,  as  usual,  they  had 
been  singing  with  splendid  effect  on  almost  every  day 
after  the  middle  of  February.  What  is  the  reason  of  this 


126  Bird  Comrades 

difference  between  the  eastern  and  western  birds?  They 
are,  according  to  the  systematists,  the  same  type,  and 
yet  they  behave  so  differently.  The  solution  of  the 
problem  is,  after  all,  quite  simple.  In  Kansas  the  song 
sparrows  are  winter  residents  exclusively,  passing  farther 
north  when  the  breeding  season  approaches ;  only  at  rare 
intervals  does  a  pair  decide  to  remain  in  the  state  through- 
out the  summer ;  whereas  in  the  Buckeye  state  these  birds 
are  permanent  residents,  remaining  throughout  the  year, 
and  therefore  they  feel  sufficiently  at  home  to  tune  their 
lyres  at  all  seasons.  On  the  other  hand,  being  only 
winter  visitors  in  Kansas,  they  do  not  seem  to  be  able  to 
overcome  their  shyness;  either  that,  or  their  wind  harps 
are  out  of  tune.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  migrating  birds 
seldom  sing  a  great  deal  in  their  winter  homes,  their  best 
lyrical  efforts  being  husbanded  for  their  breeding  haunts. 
I  once  spent  part  of  the  month  of  June  in  Minnesota, 
almost  directly  north  of  my  Kansas  field  of  research, 
and  there  found  these  charming  minstrels  as  tuneful  and 
affable  as  the  most  exacting  bird  lover  could  wish.  Per- 
haps some  of  the  very  sparrows  that  spend  the  winter  in 
silence  in  northeastern  Kansas  trill  their  finest  arias  in 
their  summer  homes  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Minnetonka 
or  in  the  boggy  hollows  in  the  neighborhood  of  Duluth. 
When  I  first  began  to  plan  for  moving  back  to  Ohio, 
I  was  foolish  enough  to  fear  that  the  song  sparrows  of 
that  state  might  have-  changed  their  habits  during  the 
years  of  my  absence,  and  that  I  should  be  disappointed 
in  them:  but  no  need  of  borrowine  trouble  on  their 


Odds  and  Ends  127 

account,  for  they  were  the  same  blithe  and  familiar  birds, 
trilling  their  sweetest  chansons  in  the  trees  in  the  resi- 
dence portion  of  the  town  in  which  I  lived.  And  sing! 
Were  there  ever  birds  with  more  dulcet  tones,  with  finer 
voice  register,  or  with  a  greater  variety  of  tunes  in  their 
repertoire  ? 

Going  back  to  Kansas  in  winter,  we  note  that  the 
song  sparrows,  instead  of  remaining  at  one  place,  shifted 
about  a  good  deal  more  than  I  had  ever  known  them  to 
do  in  the  East.  In  December  a  pair  found  a  dwelling  in  the 
weed  clumps  and  brush  heaps  of  a  hollow  a  short  distance 
from  the  Missouri  River;  but  they  soon  deserted  this 
spot,  well  sheltered  as  it  was,  none  being  seen  there  until 
the  twenty-third  of  February.  It  surprised  me  to  find 
another  pair,  and  sometimes  two  pairs,  in  a  thicket  right 
on  the  bank  of  the  wide  river,  where  they  were  exposed 
to  many  of  the  winter  blasts,  especially  those  that  swept 
down  from  the  frozen  north.  Up  in  the  deep,  winding 
ravine  they  might  have  had  excellent  shelter  and,  so  far 
as  I  could  see,  just  as  good  feeding.  However,  I  have 
long  ago  learned  that  there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes 
in  the  bird  realm  any  more  than  in  the  human  realm. 

The  hardiest  of  the  Mniotiltidce  tribe  are  the  myrtle 
warblers,  which  dapple  the  whitened  edges  of  winter,  both 
autumn  and  spring,  with  their  golden  rumps  and  amber 
brooches.  Evidently  these  birds  are  shyer  of  the  rigorous 
Ohio  winters  than  of  the  more  mild-mannered-  Kansas 
weather.  In  the  former  state  I  never  saw  a  myrtle 
warbler  after  the  first  or  second  week  in  November,  while 


128  Bird  Comrades 

in  Kansas  I  came  upon  a  flock  of  them  in  a  wooded  hollow 
by  the  river  on  the  eighth  of  December,  1897,  and  then 
after  a  severe  snowstorm  had  swept  over  the  region  from 
the  western  prairies.  It  seemed  odd  to  find  these  dainty 
f  eatherland  blossoms  when  the  whole  country  was  covered 
with  an  ermine  of  snow. 

Then  they  disappeared,  and  I  did  not  expect  to  see 
them  again  until  the  next  spring ;  but  on  the  fourteenth  of 
February,  which  was  a  warm,  vernal  day  thrust  into  the 
midst  of  winter,  a  flock  of  perhaps  a  dozen  were  flitting 
and  chirping  among  the  trees  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city, 
their  hoarse  little  chep,  always  giving  one  the  impression 
that  the  birds  have  taken  a  cold  which  has  affected  their 
vocal  cords,  sounding  as  familiar  as  of  old.  However, 
that  very  evening  at  dusk  a  black  cloud,  charged  with 
electricity  and  bellowing  with  anger,  came  up  out  of  the 
west  like  a  young  Lochinvar,  and  hurled  a  fierce  storm 
across  the  hills  and  valleys,  and  the  next  day  not  a 
myrtle  warbler  was  to  be  seen  in  all  the  countryside, 
though  I  tramped  weary  miles  in  search  of  them.  The 
tempest  had  doubtless  frightened  them  away  to  the 
suaver  southland,  from  which  they  did  not  return  until 
the  following  spring. 

One  of  my  most  pleasing  observations  was  made  on 
December  19,  1902.  There  had  been  a  number  of  days 
of  severe  weather,  accompanied  by  hard  storms.  Six 
inches  of  snow  lay  on  the  ground.  Now  the  storm  had 
spent  its  force,  the  sun  was  shining  genially,  and  the  snow 
was  melting.  Warm  as  it  was,  I  was  greatly  surprised  to 


Odds  and  Ends  129 

find  a  flock  of  myrtle  warblers  in  the  woods  so  late  in  the 
season.  They  had  braved  the  storms  of  the  preceding 
week,  and  were  as  chipper  and  active  as  myrtle  warblers 
could  be.  But  their  employment  was  a  still  greater 
surprise.  They  were  darting  about  in  the  air  among  the 
treetops,  as  well  as  amid  the  bushes  in  the  deep  ravine, 
catching  insects  on  the  wing.  That  insects  should  be  flying 
after  the  wintry  weather  of  the  previous  week  was  still 
more  surprising  than  that  the  warblers  should  be  here  to 
dine  upon  them.  Soon  after  that  day,  however,  the  little 
yellow-rumps  must  have  taken  the  wing  route  to  a  more 
genial  climate,  for  they  were  seen  no  more  that  winter. 

Of  a  more  permanent  character  was  the  residence  of 
the  jolly  j uncos,  which  dwelt  all  winter  in  northeastern 
Kansas,  let  the  weather  be  never  so  lowering.  Always 
active  and  alert,  flitting  from  bush  to  weed,  and  from  the 
snow-carpeted  ground  to  the  gnarled  oak  saplings,  now 
pilfering  a  dinner  of  wild  berries  and  now  a  luncheon  of 
weed  seeds,  they  seemed  to  generate  enough  warmth  in 
their  trig  little  bodies  to  defy  old  Boreas  to  do  his  best. 
Water  flowing  from  melting  snow  must  be  ice-cold,  yet 
the  juncos  plunged  into  the  crystal  pools  and  rinsed  their 
plumes  with  as  much  apparent  relish  as  if  their  lavatory 
were  tepid  instead  of  icy,  and  as  if  balmy  instead  of  nip- 
ping winds  were  blowing. 

One  day  I  watched  a  member  of  this  family  taking  his 
dinner  of  wild  grapes.  Finding  a  dark  red  cluster,  he 
would  pick  off  the  juiciest  berry  he  could  reach,  press  it 
daintily  between  his  white  mandibles  for  a  few  moments, 


130  Bird  Comrades 

swallow  a  part  of  the  pulp,  and  drop  the  rest  to  the  ground. 
What  part  of  the  grape  did  he  eat?  That  is  the  precise 
problem  I  could  not  solve  with  certainty,  for  on  examin- 
ing the  rejected  portions  that  had  been  flung  to  the  ground 
I  found  that  one  seed  still  remained,  together  with  part 
of  the  pulp  and  all  of  the  broken  rind.  I  half  suspect, 
though,  that  Master  Junco  likes  to  tipple  a  little  —  never 
enough,  however,  be  it  remembered,  to  make  him  reel  or 
lose  his  senses.  No!  no!  a  toper  Master  Junco  is  not;  he 
is  too  sane  a  bird  for  that!  Would  that  all  the  citizens 
of  our  republic  would  display  as  much  sound  judgment 
and  self-control. 

Where  all  the  birds  sleep  on  biting  winter  nights  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say,  but  the  acute  little  juncos  lease 
the  farmer's  corn  shocks  hard  by  the  woods.  At  dusk 
you  may  startle  a  dozen  of  them  from  a  single  shock. 
They  dart  pellmell  from  their  hiding  places,  chippering 
their  protest,  and  when  you  examine  the  shock  you  find 
cozy  nooks  and  ingles  among  the  leaves  and  stalks,  where 
they  find  couches  and  at  the  same  time  coverts  from  the 
sharp  winds.  As  you  stand  at  the  border  of  the  woods 
in  the  gloaming  you  can  hear  the  rustling  of  the  fodder 
as  the  juncos  move  about  in  their  tepees,  trying  to  find 
the  choicest  and  snuggest  berths.  Usually  they  select 
the  tops  of  the  standing  shocks,  perhaps  for  safety;  yet 
some  may  be  found  also  in  the  shocks  that  have  partly 
fallen  to  the  ground. 

In  the  latter  part  of  February  the  juncos  began  to 
rehearse  their  spring  songs,  which  were  a  welcome  sound 


Odds  and  Ends  131 

in  the  almost  unbroken  silence  of  the  winter.  The  nearer 
the  spring  approached,  the  higher  they  mounted  in  the 
trees,  and  the  more  prolonged  was  their  flight,  as  if  they 
were  practicing  their  wing  exercises  to  inure  their  muscles 
to  the  strain  that  would  be  put  upon  them  when  they 
undertook  their  long  journey  to  their  northern  summer 
homes ;  for,  of  course,  the  juncos  do  not  breed  in  our  cen- 
tral latitudes,  but  hie  to  the  northern  part  of  the  United 
States  and  the  Dominion  of  Canada. 

In  Ohio  the  brown  creepers  and  the  golden-crowned 
kinglets  were  constant  winter  companions  in  the  woods; 
but,  although  Kansas  is  considerably  farther  south,  they 
do  not  seem  to  be  winter  residents  there  —  at  least,  not 
in  the  northeastern  part  of  the  state  —  the  only  excep- 
tion being  that  in  January,  1903,  several  creepers  were 
observed  in  my  yard.  One  may  well  wonder  why  these 
birds  are  winter  residents  in  Ohio  and  only  migrants  in  a 
latitude  that  is  two  degrees  farther  south. 

There  was  some  scant  compensation  in  the  presence 
of  the  winter  wren  one  winter  in  the  Sunflower  state. 
The  fourteenth  of  December  brought  one  of  these  brown 
Lilliputians  to  a  deep  hollow  in  town,  where  he  chattered 
petulantly  and  scampered  along  an  old  paling  fence.  No 
more  winter  wrens  were  seen  until  January  seventh,  when 
one  darted  out  of  some  bushes  on  the  bank  of  a  stream 
about  two  miles  south  of  town.  My  next  jaunt  to  this 
hollow  took  place  on  the  twenty-seventh,  when,  to  my 
surprise,  a  hermit  thrush  was  seen  in  a  clump  of  bushes 
and  saplings — a  bird  that  I  supposed  had  been  sunning 


132  Bird  Comrades 

himself  for  at  least  a  month  in  the  genial  South.  While 
tramping  about  trying  to  £et  another  view  of  the  uncon- 
ventional thrush,  I  frightened  a  winter  wren  from  a  cluster 
of  weeds  and  bushes.  My!  how  alarmed  he  was !  Utter- 
ing a  loud  chirp,  he  darted  down  to  the  center  of  the 
stream  and  slipped  into  a  little  cave  formed  by  ice  and 
snow  frozen  over  a  clump  of  low  bushes.  There  he  hid 
himself  like  an  Eskimo  in  his  snow  hut.  My  trudging 
near  by  frightened  the*  bird  out  of  the  farther  doorway, 
and  he  dashed  away  pellmell,  hurling  a  saucy  gird  of 
protestation  at  me,  and  was  seen  by  me  no  more.  I  exam- 
ined the  little  snow  house.  It  was  very  cunning  indeed, 
and  might  well  have  made  a  cozy  shelter  for  the  little 
wren  in  stormy  weather.  My  next  meeting  with  a 
winter  wren  occurred  on  the  fifteenth  -  of  February, 
in  the  same  hollow,  but  about  an  eighth  of  a  mile  nearer 
the  river.  A  query  arises  here :  Did  I  see  four  different 
winter  wrens  during  the  winter,  or  only  one  in  four 
different  localities  ?  Who  can  tell  ? 

That  is  not  all  about  the  winter  wrens.  My  first  win- 
ter in  Kansas  was  the  severest  I  experienced  in  that 
state;  yet  it  was  the  only  winter  of  the  five  I  spent  in 
Kansas  that  brought  me  the  winter  wren.  If  it  would 
do  any  good,  one  might  ask  again  the  question  why. 
Although  the  winter  wren  is  a  migrant  in  Ohio,  as  he  is 
for  the  most  part  in  northeastern  Kansas,  yet  I  never 
heard  his  song  in  the  former  state,  while  in  the  latter  I 
was  fortunate  enough  to  listen  to  his  tinkling  melody 
three  times  the  first  spring  I  spent  there.  After  that  I 


Odds  and  Ends  133 

never  heard  him,  and  indeed  saw  him  only  a  few  times. 
But  the  sweet,  silvery  roulade  —  could  there  be  anything 
more  charming  in  the  world  of  outdoor  music? 

My  winter  rambles  —  and  winter  is  almost  as  good  a 
time  for  bird  study  as  summer  —  enabled  me  to  note 
some  variety  of  temperament  in  the  avian  realm.  One 
thing  we  soon  learn  in  our  winter  outings :  Few  birds  are 
recluses.  No,  they  are  sociable  creatures,  living  in  what 
might  be  called  nomadic  communities.  In  the  spring- 
time, during  the  mating  season,  they  pair  off  and  become 
more  or  less  exclusive  and  secretive,  keeping  close  to  the 
precincts  they  have  selected;  but  in  winter  they  grow 
more  neighborly,  and  move  about  in  the  woods  or  over 
the  fields  in  flocks  of  various  sizes. 

The  woodland  flocks  usually  consist  of  a  number  of 
species  all  of  which  seem  to  be  on  the  most  cordial  terms, 
having,  no  doubt,  a  community  of  interest.  As  we  quietly 
pursue  our  way  in  this  wooded  vale,  we  see  no  birds  for 
some  distance.  Presently  a  fine,  protesting  "  chick-a-dee- 
dee!  chick -a-dee- dee P'  breaks  the  silence.  It  is  the 
warning  call  of  the  tomtit  or  chickadee,  which  we  soon 
espy  tilting  about  on  his  trapeze  of  twigs  in  the  trees  or 
bushes.  But  you  may  depend  upon  it  he  is  not  alone;  he 
is  only  a  part  of  the  rim  of  a  feathered  colony  dwelling 
near  at  hand,  and  consisting,  very  likely,  of  tufted  titmice, 
white-breasted  nuthatches,  juncos,  tree  sparrows,  blue 
jays,  one  or  two  downy  woodpeckers,  a  pair  of  cardinals, 
a  flicker  or  two,  and  a  cackling  red-breasted  woodpecker. 
There  may  be  even  a  song  sparrow  in  the  company  and  a 


134  Bird  Comrades 

couple  of  brown  creepers,  and  possibly  a  flock  of  purple 
finches,  chirping  cheerily  in  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

While,  in  the  spring  and  summer,  birds  are  to  be  found 
in  nearly  every  part  of  the  woods,  never  many  at  one 
place,  the  opposite  condition  prevails  in  the  winter. 
Sometimes  you  may  walk  almost  a  half  mile  without  see- 
ing or  hearing  a  single  bird;  then  you  suddenly  come  upon 
a  good-sized  company  of  them,  somewhat  scattered, 'it  is 
true,  but  within  easy  hailing  distance.  Nor  do  they 
always  remain  in  the  same  localities,  but  move  about, 
now  here,  now  there,  like  nomads  looking  for  the  best 
foraging  places.  For  instance,  on  the  first  of  January,  after 
leaving  the  city,  I  saw  not  a  bird  until  I  reached  a  pleasant 
sylvan  hollow  at  least  a  half  mile  away.  Here  a  merry 
crowd  greeted  the  pedestrian.  It  was  composed  of  all  the 
birds  I  have  just  named,  with  flocks  of  bluebirds  and  gold- 
finches thrown  in  for  good  measure.  On  the  fourteenth 
of  January  a  company — either  the  same  or  another — was 
found  in  a  small  copsy  hollow  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  city,  while  the  spot  previously  occupied  was 
deserted.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  these  feathered 
troopers  roaming  about  the  country  in  search  of  Nature's 
choicest  storehouses.  The  code  that  obtains  in  these 
movable  birdvilles  is  this,  as  near  as  I  am  able  to  analyze 
it:  Each  one  for  himself,  and  yet  all  for  one  another. 

The  familiar  adage,  "  Birds  of  a  feather  flock  together," 
is  not  always  true,  for  in  winter  birds  of  many  a  feather 
often  flock  together.  It  may  be  asked,  Why?  No 
doubt  largely  for  social  ends.  Nothing  is  more  evident 


Odds  and  Ends  135 

to  the  observer  than  that  most  birds  love  company,  and 
a  good  deal  of  it.  Their  genial  conversation  among 
themselves  as  they  pursue  their  work  and  play  fully 
proves  that.  Another  object  is  undoubtedly  protection. 
Birds  have  enemies,  many  of  them,  and  when  the  woods 
are  bare  there  is  little  chance  for  hiding,  and  so  they  must 
be  especially  on  the  alert.  Let  a  hawk  come  gliding 
silently  and  slyly  down  the  vale,  and  before  he  gets  too 
near  some  keen  little  eye  espies  him,  the  alarm  is  sounded, 
and  the  whole  company  scurries  into  the  thickets  or  trees 
for  safety.  The  chickadees  and  titmice  seem  to  be  a  sort 
of  sentry  for  the  company. 

A  large  part  of  the  time  in  birdland  is  spent  in  solv- 
ing the  "bread-and-butter"  problem.  And  how  do  our 
feathered  citizens  solve  this  important  problem  in  the 
cold  weather?  Nature  has  spread  many  a  banquet  for 
her  avian  children,  although  they  must  usually  rustle  for 
their  food  just  as  wex  must  in  the  human  world.  The 
nuthatches,  titmice,  woodpeckers,  and  brown  creepers 
find  larvae,  grubs,  borers,  and  insects'  eggs  in  the  crannies 
of  the  bark  and  other  nooks  and  niches;  the  goldfinches 
find  something  to  their  taste  in  the  buds  of  the  trees  and 
also  make  many  a  meal  of  thistle  and  sunflower  seeds; 
the  juncos  and  tree  sparrows,  forming  a  joint  stock  com- 
pany in  winter,  rifle  all  kinds  of  weeds  of  their  seedy  treas- 
ures; the  blue  jays  lunch  on  acorns  and  berries  when  they 
cannot  find  enough  juicy  grubs  to  satisfy  their  appetites, 
and  so  on  through  the  whole  list. 

By  playing  the  spy  on  the  birdrs  we  may  learn  much 


136  Bird  Comrades 

about  their  dietary  habits.  It  is  the  first  of  January, 
and  we  are  in  a  wooded  hollow.  There  is  a  tufted  tit- 
mouse; now  he  flits  to  the  ground,  picks  up  a  tidbit, 
darts  up  to  a  twig,  places  his  morsel  under  his  claws, 
and  proceeds  to  peck  it  to  pieces.  Our  binocular  shows 
that  it  is  something  yellow,  but  we  cannot  make  out  what 
it  is.  As  we  draw  near,  the  bird  seizes  the  fragment  with 
his  bill  —  perhaps  he  fears  we  will  filch  it  from  him  — 
and  flits  about  among  the  bushes  on  the  steep  bank, 
looking  for  a  place  to  stow  his  "  goody. "  Presently  he 
pushes  it  into  a  crevice  of  the  bark,  hammers  it  tightly 
into  place,  and  darts  away  with  a  merry  chirp.  We  go 
to  the  spot  and  find  that  his  hidden  treasure  is  a  grain  of 
corn  which  he  has  purloined  from  the  farmer's  field  on 
the  slope.  A  few  minutes  later  another  tit— or  the  same 
one  —  slyly  thrusts  a  morsel  in  among  some  leaves  and 
twigs  on  the  bank,  even  pulling  the  leaves  down  over  it 
for  a  screen.  It  turns  out  to  be  a  small  acorn.  That 
is  one  of  Master  Tit's  ways  —  storing  away  provisions 
for  a  time  of  need.  With  his  stout,  conical  beak  he  is 
able  to  break  the  shell  of  an  acorn,  peck  a  corn  grain  into 
swallowable  bits,  and  tear  open  the  toughest  casing  of  a 
cocoon.  He  will  even  break  the  hard  pits  of  the  dog- 
wood berry  to  secure  the  kernel  within,  the  ground  below 
often  being  strewn  with  the  shell  fragments.  No  danger 
of  Par  us  bicolor  coming  to  want  or  going  to  the  poorhouse. 
Another  day  the  j uncos  are  feeding  on  the  seeds  of  the 
foxtail  or  pigeon  grass,  in  an  old  orchard  hard  by  the 
border  of  the  woods.  Sometimes  they  will  make  a  dinner 


Odds  and  Ends  137 

of  berries — the  kinds  too  that  are  regarded  as  poisonous 
to  man  —  eating  the  juicy  pulp  in  their  dainty  way,  and 
dropping  the  seeds  and  rind  to  the  ground.  In  the 
ravine  furrowed  out  by  a  stream  —  this  is  down  in  one 
of  the  hollows  —  there  is  a  perfect  network  of  bird  tracks 
in  the  snow  beneath  a  clump  of  weed  stalks.  How 
dainty  they  are,  like  tiny  chains,  twisted  and  coiled  about 
on  the  white  surface!  They  were  made  by  the  juncos 
and  tree  sparrows,  and  on  examining  the  seed  pods  and 
clusters  above  the  bank  we  note  that  they  are  torn  and 
ragged.  The  feathered  banqueters  have  been  here,  and 
while  they  were  industriously  culling  the  pods,  some  of 
the  seeds  fell  to  the  white  carpet  below,  and  these  have 
been  carefully  picked  up  by  the  birds,  as  we  see,  so  that 
nothing  should  be  wasted. 

It  is  not  often  you  catch  a  bird  in  the  singing  mood 
in  the  winter;  yet  on  December  19,  a  purple  finch  was 
piping  quite  a  vivacious  tune  in  the  woods.  Of  course, 
he  was  not  in  his  best  voice,  but  his  performance  was 
good  enough  to  entitle  it  to  the  name  of  bird  music.  The 
finches,  by  the  way,  are  strong  flyers.  At  your  approach, 
instead  of  flitting  off  a  little  way,  perhaps  to  the  next 
tree  or  bush,  after  the  manner  of  the  tits  and  nuthatches 
and  many  other  birds,  the  finches  tarry  in  the  tree- tops 
as  long  as  they  deem  it  safe,  then  take  to  wing  and  fly 
to  a  distant  part  of  the  woods,  and  you  may  not  see 
them  again  that  day.  However,  they  may  come  back 
to  you  after  a  while,  as  if  they  relished  your  company. 
The  goldfinches  are  also  long-distance  flyers,  not  flitters. 


138  Bird  Comrades 

Usually  they  give  some  signal  of  their  presence,  either 
by  their  vivacious  "  pe-chick-o-pe  "  or  their  childlike  and 
semi-musical  calls;  but  there  are  times  when  a  good-sized 
flock  of  them  will  suddenly  appear  in  the  tree-tops  above 
you,  and  you  cannot  tell  when  they  arrived,  for  you  did 
not  see  them  there  at  all  a  few  minutes  before. 


WAYSIDE    OBSERVATIONS 

THE  previous  chapter  closed  with  some  notes  on 
the  behavior  of  birds  in  the  winter  time.     My 
home  rambling  grounds  in  northeastern  Kansas 
were  extremely  undulating,  .cut  up  into  ridges  and  ravines, 
most  of  which  were  covered  with  a  thick  growth  of  weeds, 
bushes,  and  timber.     In  some  places  the  thickets  were  so 
dense  as  to  be  almost  impenetrable.  This  diversity  in  the 
topography  of  the  country  afforded  considerable  variety 
in  the  faunal  life  of  the  region. 

For  example,  in  bitter  winter  weather  most  of  the 
birds  would  hug  the  sheltered  hollows,  where  they  found 
coverts  in  the  copses,  and  would  avoid  the  hilltops,  which 
were  exposed  to  the  nipping  winds  blowing  from  the 
western  prairies.  As  the  spring  approached,  bringing 
blander  weather,  they  gradually  moved  up  the  hillsides, 
many  of  them  finding  billsome  seeds  and  berries  on  the 
summits. 

However,  note  a  difference  in  the  temperament  of 
individuals  of  the  same  species.  On  the  bitterest  days 
of  winter  I  would  sometimes  leave  the  sheltered  hollows 
and  lowlands  and  clamber  to  the  summits  of  the  wind- 
swept hills,  and,  oddly  enough,  on  the  exposed  heights 
I  occasionallv  flushed  a  solitary  bird,  which  would  spring 

139 


140  Bird  Comrades 

up  from  the  weeds  or  copses  and  dart  away  with  a  fright- 
ened cry.  More  than  likely  it  would  be  an  individual  of 
the  same  species  as  some  of  the  more  socially  disposed 
tenants  of  the  lower  grounds,  but  for  some  reason,  what, 
I  know  not,  it  preferred  the  life  of  an  anchorite;  it  did 
not  care  for  society,  even  of  its  own  kith.  Invariably, 
too,  these  feathered  recluses  were  extremely  shy,  scuttling 
away  like  frightened  deer  as  I  approached  their  cloistered 
haunts. 

These  notes  stir  several  queries  in  one's  mind.  Is 
there  such  a  thing  as  social  ostracism  in  the  bird  world? 
Might  these  hilltop  eremites  have  committed  some  crime 
or  some  breach  of  decorum  that  effected  their  banishment 
from  respectable  avicular  society?  Or  were  they  simply 
of  a  sullen  or  retiring  disposition,  choosing  seclusion 
rather  than  the  company  of  their  kind  ?  These  questions 
must  be  left  unanswered.  Most  frequently  the  lone  bird 
would  be  a  song  sparrow.  Once  a  brilliant,  cardinal  was 
trying  to  conceal  himself  in  a  clump  of  bushes  and  weeds 
far  up  the  hillside,  acting  very  much  like  a  social  out- 
cast. For  some  reason  that  he  did  not  see  fit  to  explain 
he  wanted  to  be  alone. 

If  the  song  sparrows  of  eastern  Kansas  belie  their 
name  and  seldom  fall  into  the  lyrical  mood,  as  has  been 
said,  the  like  cannot  be  said  of  the  robins,  which,  in  the 
proper  season,  were  very  lavish  of  their  minstrelsy.  Their 
favorite  singing  time  in  the  West,  as  in  the  East,  was 
at  the  "peep  of  dawn."  How  often  their  ringing  carols 
broke  into  my  early  morning  dreams! 


CARDINAL 

Cardinalis  cardinalis 

(One-half  natural  size) 


Wayside  Observations  141 

Have  you  ever  noticed  the  tentative  efforts  of  the 
robins  in  the  early  spring,  at  the  beginning  of  the  song 
season,  before  they  get  their  harps  in  full  tune?  It  is 
interesting  and  amusing  to  listen  to  their  rehearsals,  of 
which  they  need  quite  a  number  before  they  acquire 
full  control  of  their  voices.  This  is  the  method:  Starting 
off  on  a  tune,  they  will  keep  it  up  until  their  voices  break ; 
then  they  will  stop  a  while  to  recover  breath,  and  pres- 
ently make  another  attempt  with  perhaps  slightly  better 
success.  At  first  they  are  able  to  pipe  only  a  syllable 
or  two  before  their  voices  break.  After  a  while  they 
succeed  in  carrying  the  tune  for  a  respectable  little  run, 
but  sooner  or  later  their  voices  will  go  all  to  pieces  or 
slide  up  into  a  falsetto,  making  another  pause  necessary. 
By  and  by,  however,  after  much  practice,  they  gain  per- 
fect vocal  control,  and  are  able  to  sustain  their  songs  for 
a  long  time  without  a  mishap.  When  the  voice  of  the 
rehearsing  bird  breaks,  it  apparently  runs  too  high  in  the 
scale  for  the  bird's  register,  just  as  the  voice  of  a  sixteen- 
year-old  boy  is  apt  to  do,  to  his  own  confusion  and  the 
amusement  of  his  friends. 

Another  fact  about  robin  music  may  be  of  interest 
to  those  who  have  not  observed  it.  In  the  early  spring 
these  birds  are  extremely  lyrical,  that  being  their  season 
of  courtship ;  then  will  follow  a  few  weeks  of  comparative 
silence  —  the  time  when  there  are  little  ones  in  need  of 
parental  care.  At  this  period  the  husbands,  it  would 
seem,  are  either  too  busy  or  too  wary  to  sing  a  great  deal. 
But  now  note:  When  the  youngsters  have  flown  from 


142  Bird  Comrades 

• 
the  nest  and  are  able  to  take  care  of  themselves,  the 

silence  in  robindom  is  again  broken,  and  there  is  a  flood- 
tide  of  melody  from  early  morning  till  eventide.  The 
second  lyrical  period  lasts  until  another  nest  has  been  built 
and  another  clutch  of  eggs  has  been  hatched,  'when  the 
choralists  again  relapse  into  comparative  silence. 

Since  coming  back  to  Ohio,  I  imagine  that  the  eastern 
robins  are  better  singers  than  their  western  relatives. 
Their  voices,  to  my  ear,  are  clearer  and  more  ringing, 
less  apt  to  break  into  a  squeak  at  the  top  of  their  register, 
and  there  is  more  variety  of  expression  as  well  as  greater 
facility  in  managing  the  technique.  I  think  this  is  not 
all  fancy,  yet  I  would  not  speak  with  the  assurance  of 
the  dogmatist. 

In  the  good  Jayhawker  state  the  orchard  orioles  are 
more  abundant  than  they  are  in  the  eastern  and  north- 
eastern part  of  the  state  of  Ohio.  Indeed,  the  range  of 
this  species  is  more  southerly  than  that  of  their  congeners, 
the  Baltimore  orioles.  In  their  proper  latitude  no  birds, 
or  at  least  few  of  them,  are  more  lavish  of  their  melody 
than  the  orchard  orioles.  What  a  ringing  voice  the  oriole 
possesses!  His  song  has  a  saucy  note  of  challenge  run- 
ning through  it,  and  also  a  human  intonation  that  makes 
it  rarely  attractive.  All  day  long  the  male  sings  his 
cheery  solos,  scarcely  pausing  for  breath  or  food,  now 
sitting  on  the  topmost  twig  of  a  dead  apple  tree  in  the 
orchard,  now  amid  the  screening  foliage  of  a  maple  in 
the  yard,  and  anon  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  in  a 
stately  cottonwood.  But  where  is  that  modest  little 


Wayside  Observations  .    143 

personage,  his  wife?  She  is  seldom  heard,  and  almost  as 
seldom  seen.  It  is  really  remarkable  —  her  gift  of  con- 
cealment. When  she  builds  her  nest  is  a  mystery.  It  is 
often  so  deftly  hidden  that  you  would  not  be  likely 
to  find  it, in  a  long  hunt.  In  the  spring  of  1898  a  pair  of 
orchard  orioles  took  up  their  residence  in  the  trees  about 
my  house,  the  male  singing  his  brisk  overtures,  the  female 
seen  only  at  flitting  intervals  and  never  heard.  Watch 
as  I  would,  I  could  not  surprise  her  laying  the  timbers 
of  her  cottage,  which  I  felt  sure  was  being  built  some- 
where in  the  trees.  Indeed,  I  did  not  discover  it  until 
autumn  came,  long  after  the  orioles,  old  and  young, 
had  taken  flight  to  a  balmier  clime,  and  the  trees  were 
stripped  of  their  leaves,  when,  lo!  it  appeared  in  plain 
view  on  one  of  the  trees  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
the  very  place  where  I  had  not  thought  of  looking  for  it. 

The  Baltimore  orioles  as  a  rule  are  not  so  secretive; 
yet  during  the  summer  of  1898  a  pair  of  these  firebirds  led 
me  a  fruitless  chase.  Their  secret  was  not  divulged  until 
the  leaves  had  fallen  the  next  autumn,  when  there  the 
nest  hung  in  the  midst  of  a  tall  cottonwood  in  my  back 
yard  close  to  the  house.  Lord  Baltimore  and  his  mate 
usually  suspend  their  nests  on  the  outer  branches  of  the 
trees,  where  they  are  not  hard  to  discover,  but  this  pair 
did  not  follow  the  common  formula,  for  the  nest  was 
placed  in  the  thickest  part  of  the  foliage,  so  that  it  was 
impossible  to  see  it  from  the  ground  until  the  branches 
were  bare. 

Of  all  the  malaperts  of  birddom  none  excel  and  few 
10 


144  Bird  Comrades 

equal  the  white-eyed  vireo  for  volubility  and  downright 
audacity.  All  his  songs  —  and  he  has  quite  a  respect- 
able list  of  them  —  seem  to  be  either  a  protest  or  a  chal- 
lenge; a  protest  against  your  intrusion  into  his  precincts, 
a  challenge  to  find  him  and  his  nest  if  you  can.  Again 
and  again  in  Kansas  I  crept  into  their  bushy  coverts  just 
for  the  purpose  of  receiving  a  sound  scolding.  Such  a 
berating  did  they  give  me,  telling  me  of  all  my  faults  and 
foibles,  that  I  certainly  ought  to  remain  humble  all  the 
rest  of  my  days.  A  half  dozen  viragoes  could  not  have 
done  better  —  that  is,  worse.  They  would  flit  about  in 
the  bushes  above  my  head,  their  little  white  eyes  gleam- 
ing with  fire,  and  call  me  all  the  names  they  could  lay 
their  tongues  to.  I  wonder  whether  the  white-eyes  have 
a  dictionary  of  epithets.  Nature  has  done  an  odd  thing 
in  making  the  white-eyed  vireo. 

Their  nests  are  not  easy  to  find,  although  they  do  not 
always  make  a  great  deal  of  effort  at  concealment.  Like 
all  the  vireo  tribe,  they  suspend  their  tiny  baskets  from 
the  fork  or  crotch  of  a  horizontal  twig.  The  nest  is 
somewhat  bulkier  than  the  compact  little  cup  of  the  red- 
eyed  vireo,  and  is  apt  to  be  more  carefully  concealed  in 
the  foliage,  although  I  have  found  more  than  one  nest 
that  was  hung  in  plain  sight.  I  remember  one  in  par- 
ticular. It  was  dangling  from  the  outer  twigs  of  a  small 
bush  by  the  side  of  the  woodland  path  which  I  was  pur- 
suing. In  fact,  it  could  be  distinctly  seen  from  the  path. 
In  spite  of  the  mother's  pleadings,  protests,  and  objurga- 
tions, I  stepped  over  to  inspect  her  pendant  domicile, 


WHITE-EYED  VIREO 
Vireo  noveboracensis 

(Four-fifths  natural  size) 


Wayside  Observations  145 

whose  holdings  were  four  baby  white-eyes,  their  eyelids 
still  glued  together.  As  the  twigs  stirred,  they  opened 
their  mouths  for  food,  and  I  decided  to  accommodate 
them.  Taking  a  bit  of  cracker  from  my  haversack,  I 
moistened  it,  and  rolled  it  into  a  pellet  between  my  ringer 
and  thumb;  then,  gently  swaying  the  bushes,  I  induced 
the  bantlings  to  open  their  mouths,  when  I  dropped  the 
morsel  into  one  of  the  tiny  throats.  You  ought  to  have 
seen  the  wry  face  baby  made  as  it  gulped  down  the  new 
kind  of  food,  which  had  such  an  odd  taste.  It  was  plain 
that  the  callow  nestling  was  able  to  distinguish  this  mor- 
sel from  the  palatable  diet  it  had  been  accustomed  to. 
Possibly  it  suffered  from  a  temporary  fit  of  indigestion, 
but  no  permanent  harm  was  done  by  my  experiment,  for 
when  I  called  on  them  again  a  few  days  later,  the  birdkins 
four  were  safe  and  well,  their  eyes  open,  and  their  instincts 
sufficiently  developed  to  cause  them  to  cuddle  low  in  their 
basket  instead  of  opening  their  mouths. 

The  rambler  who  would  hear  a  real  outdoor  concert 
should  rise  early,  swallow  a  few  bits  of  cracker  and  a  cup 
of  coffee,  and  seek  some  bird-haunted  hollow  or  wood- 
land just  as  day  begins  to  break.  One  morning  I  pur- 
sued this  plan,  and  was  more  than  compensated  for  the 
loss  of  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep.  Just  as  the  east  began 
to  blush  I  found  myself  in  a  favorite  wooded  hollow. 

What  a  potpourri  of  bird  song  greeted  my  ear!  How 
many  choralists  took  part  in  the  matutinal  concert  I 
cannot  say,  but  there  were  scores  of  them.  The  volume 
of  song  would  sometimes  swell  to  a  full-toned  orchestra, 


146  Bird  Comrades 

and  then  for  a  few  moments  it  would  sink  almost  to  a  lull, 
all  of  it  like  the  flow  and  ebb  of  the  tides  of  a  sea  of  melody. 
It  was  interesting  to  note  how  several  voices  would  some- 
times run  into  a  chime  when  they  struck  the  same  chord. 

Let  me  call  the  roll  of  the  members  of  that  feathered 
choir.  First,  and  most  gifted  of  all,  were  a  couple  of  brown 
thrashers,  whose  tones  were  as  strong  and  sweet  as  those 
of  a  silver  cornet,  making  the  echoes  ring  across  the  hollow. 
I  have  listened  to  many  a  thrasher  song  in  the  North,  the 
South,  and  the  West,  but  have  never  heard  a  voice  of 
better  timbre  than  that  of  one  of  the  tawny  vocalists 
singing  that  morning,  as  he  sat  on  the  topmost  twig  of 
an  oak  tree  and  flung  out  his  medley  upon  the  morning 
air.  It  is  wonderful,  anyway,  with  what  an  ecstasy  the 
thrasher  will  sometimes  sing.  Nothing  could  be  plainer 
than  that  he  s^ngs  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  it  —  an  artist 
deeply  in  love  with  his  art. 

Falling  a  little  behind  the  thrashers  in  vocal  power 
and  technical  execution  were  the  catbirds,  which  sent 
up  their  cavatinas  from  the  bushes  in  the  hollow.  Their 
voices  lacked  the  volume  and  strength  of  their  rivals, 
yet  some  of  their  strains  were  truly  the  quintessence  of 
sweetness. 

Conspicuous  members  of  the  early  chorus  were  the 
wood  thrushes,  a  dozen  or  more  of  which  were  often  sing- 
ing at  the  same  .time.  From  every  part  of  the  woods 
their  peals  arose.  Of  course,  there  was  no  attempt  — 
at  least,  so  far  as  I  could  discover  —  to  sing  in  concert, 
but  each  minstrel  followed  his  own  sweet  will,  and  so  the 


Wayside  Observations  147 

combined  result  was  not  what  you  would  call  a  harmony, 
but  a  medley,  albeit  a  very  pleasing  one.  If  the  wood 
thrush's  execution  were  less  labored,  he  would  certainly 
be  a  marvelous  songster,  and  even  as  it  is,  he  furnishes 
unending  delight  to  those  whose  ears  are  trained  to  appre- 
ciate avian  minstrelsy. 

Two  or  three  rose-breasted  grossbeaks  piped  their 
liquid,  childlike  arias;  towhees,  at  least  a  half-dozen  of 
them,  flung  forth  their  loud,  explosive  trills  that  have  a 
real  musical  quality ;  several  cardinals  whistled  as  if  they 
meant  to  drown  out  all  the  other  voices ;  scarlet  and  sum- 
mer tanagers.  drawled  their  good-natured  tunes,  while 
their  rich  robes  gleamed  in  the  level  rays  of  the  rising  sun; 
running  like  silver  threads  through  all  the  other  music, 
could  be  heard  the  fine  trills  of  the  field  sparrows;  the 
swinging  chant  of  the  creeping  warblers  and  the  loud 
rattle  of  the  Tennessee  warblers  ran  high  up  in  the  scale, 
furnishing  a  gossamer  tenor;  that  golden  optimist,  the 
Baltimore  oriole,  piped  his  cheery  recitative  in  the  tops 
of  the  trees;  chickadees  supplied  the  minor  strains  and 
tufted  titmice  the  alto ;  four  or  five  turtle  doves  soothed 
the  ear  with  their  meditative  cooing;  while  the  calls  and 
songs  of  numerous  jays  and  a  few  yellow-breasted  chats 
made  a  kind  of  trombone  accompaniment.  Surely  it  is 
worth  one's  while  to  hie  early  to  the  haunts  of  the  birds 
to  hear  such  a  tumult  of  song. 

One  spring  I  made  up  my  mind  to  make  a  closer  study 
than  ever  of  the  dainty  creeping  warbler,  wishing  to  know 
just  how  he  contrives  to  scuttle  up  and  down  the  boles 


148  Bird  Comrades 

and  branches  of  the  trees  with  so  much  ease  and  grace. 
He  is  the  only  warbler  we  have  in  eastern  North  America 
that  makes  a  habit  of  scaling  the  tree  trunks  and  descend- 
ing them  head  downward.  How  does  he  do  this?  The 
muscles  of  his  legs  and  *  pel  vis  are  as  elastic  as  India 
rubber,  so  that  he  can  twist  and  twirl  about  in  a  mar- 
velous way,  pointing  his  head  one  moment  to  the  east 
and  the  next,  without  losing  his  hold,  in  the  opposite 
direction.  He  is  able  to  swing  himself  around  almost  as 
if  he  were  hung  on  a  pivot. 

But  how  does  he  hold  himself  on  his  shaggy  wall  as 
he  hitches  head  downward  ?  Just  as  the  nuthatch  does — 
not  by  keeping  both  feet  directly  under  him,  as  most 
people  suppose,  but  by  thrusting  one  foot  slightly  forward 
and  the  other  outward  and  backward,  thus  preserving 
his  balance  at  the  same  time  that  he  holds  himself 
firmly  with  his  sharp  little  claws  to  his  upright  wall. 
Some  of  the  pictures  of  the  creeper  seen  in  the  books  are 
not  quite  true  to  creeper  methods  of  clinging  and  loco- 
motion, for  they  represent  him  as  stuck  to  the  bark  of  a 
tree  trunk  with  both  feet  invisible,  presumably  held 
directly  under  his  striped  breast.  In  the  real  position  it 
is  likely  that  one  or  both  feet  could  be  seen,  the  one  thrust 
forward  and  the  other  flung  back  and  to  one  side.  ,  At 
least  one  foot  would  be  visible,  whatever  the  angle  at 
which  the  bird  would  be  inspected,  and  from  many  points 
of  view  both  of  his  tiny  feet  may  be  plainly  seen  in  the 
position  described. 

Our  little  striped  friend,  usually  called  in  the  books 


Wayside  Observations  149 

the  black-and-white  warbler,  is  not,  after  all,  so  expert 
a  creeper  as  is  the  nuthatch,  which  may  be  called  the 
arboreal  skater  par  excellence.  The  warbler  does  not  go 
scuttling  straight  down  a  vertical  bole  or  branch  as  the 
nuthatch  does,  but  swings  his  lithe  body  from  side  to 
side,  as  if  he  did  not  loosen  the  hold  of  both  feet  simul- 
taneously but  alternately.  Besides,  both  in  ascending 
and  descending  he  must  have  more  frequent  recourse  to 
his  wings  to  tide  him  over  the  difficult  places.  While  the 
nuthatch  can  glide  over  the  smoothest  and  hardest  bark, 
and  even  descend  the  wall  of  a  brick  house,  his  sharp 
claws  taking  a  firm  grip  on  the  edges  of  the  bricks,  the 
warbler  is  not  quite  so  much  of  a  gymnast,  for  when  he 
strikes  a  difficult  spot  in  his  promenade  ground,  he  flies 
or  flits  over  it  to  the  next  protuberance  which  his  claws 
can  hold.  He  has  a  decided  advantage,  however,  over  all 
his  warbler  kin,  for  he  is  not  only  gifted  with  the  creeping 
talent,  but  is  also  just  as  dexterous  as  they  in  perching 
on  a  horizontal  twig. 

The  little  bird  known  as  the  brown  creeper  belongs  to 
a  different  avicular  family  entirely,  but  in  one  respect  he 
is  like  the  black-and-white  warbler  —  that  is,  he  scales 
the  trunks  and  branches  of  the  trees.  There,  however, 
the  resemblance  ceases,  for  the  creeper  rarely  goes  head 
downward,  evidently  thinking  that  the  proper  position 
for  a  bird's  head  is  pointing  toward  the  sky,  not  toward 
the  ground.  Besides,  he  seldom,  if  ever,  sits  crosswise 
on  a  perch;  no,  he  is  an  inveterate  creeper.  My  study  of 
him  proves  that  he  does  not  hold  his  feet  directly  under 


150  Bird  Comrades 

his  breast,  but  spreads  them  out  well  toward  either  side, 
knowing  instinctively  how  to  make  a  broad  enough  base 
to  enable  him  to  preserve  his  center  of  gravity. 

Like  the  woodpecker,  he  uses  his  stiff  tail  as  a  brace; 
nor  does  he  go  zigzagging  up  his  wall  after  the  manner 
of  the  creeping  warbler,  but  hitches  along  in  a  direct  line 
— unless,  of  course,  a  tidbit  attracts  him  to  one  side — 
proving  that  he  is  a  true  creeper,  one  to  the  manner  born. 
However,  the  warbler  has  one  advantage — he  is  able 
to  perch  with  perfect  security  on  a  twig,  an  accomplish- 
ment that  has  not  yet  been  attained  by  his  little  brown 
cousin.  How  cunningly  the  creeper  peeps  into  the  cran- 
nies of  the  bark  as  he  plies  his  trade,  thrusts  his  long, 
curved  beak  into  the  tiny  holes  and  crevices,  and  draws 
out  a  worm  or  a  grub,  which  the  next  moment  goes 
twinkling  down  his  throat!  His  economic  value  to  the 
farmer  and  the  fruit  grower  cannot  be  estimated,  and  he 
should  never  be  destroyed. 

The  conduct  of  different  birds  is  not  alike  upon  their 
arrival  from  the  South  at  their  summer  nesting  haunts 
in  our  more  northern  latitudes ;  some  heralding  their 
advent  with  jubilant  song  as  if  in  greeting  to  the  familiar 
scenes,  while  others  are  silent  and  wary.  The  first  I 
knew  of  the  Baltimore  and  orchard  orioles  last  spring, 
they  were  singing  blithely  in  the  trees  about  the  house; 
but  the  brown  thrashers  flitted  about  slyly  and  silently 
for  a  few  days,  apparently  to  make  sure  that 'the  coast 
was  clear  of  danger;  having  done  which,  they  burst  into 
their  dithyrambs  with  a  will.  Out  in  the  woodland  the 


BALTIMORE  ORIOLE 
Icterus  galbula 

(One-half  natural  size) 


Wayside  Observations  151 

gorgeous  scarlet  tanager  announced  his  arrival  one  morn- 
ing with  a  lively  sonnet,  which  was  heard  long  before  the 
singer  was  seen;  whereas  his  cousin,  the  summer  tanager, 
uttered  only  his  quaint  alarm-call,  "  Chip-burn,  chip- 
burn,"  and  was  excessively  shy,  dashing  wildly  away  as 
I  approached,  unwilling  to  vouchsafe  a  wisp  of  song. 
Once  he  even  pounced  angrily  upon  his  black-winged 
relative  and  drove  him  to  the  other  side  of  the  hollow, 
precisely  as  if  he  meant  to  say,  "  Your  singing  is  out  of 
place,  sir,  and  dangerous,  too!  Don't  you  know  that  the 
man  prowling  about  yonder  will  shoot  little  birds  who 
betray  their  presence  by  singing?'* 

One  of  our  most  lavish  singers  all  summer  long  is  the 
indigo  bunting;  yet  when  he  first  came  back  from  the 
South  he  was  very  shy,  and  his  voice  seemed  to  be  out 
of  tune,  so  that,  even  when  he  tried  to  sing,  which  was 
seldom,  his  effort  sounded  like  the  creaking  of  a  rusty 
door-hinge.  Afterwards,  however,  when  he  got  the  cob- 
webs out  of  his  larynx,  he  made  up  for  all  his  previous 
silence.  Quite  different  is  the  habit  of  the  towhee,  which 
announces  his  presence  by  his  loud,  explosive  trill — all 
too  brief — or  his  complaining  "chewing." 

Sometimes  the  rambler  and  bird  gazer  meets  with 
other  than  avian  " specimens"  in  his  excursions.  One 
evening  I  was  loitering  in  a  distant  hollow,  ogling  with 
my  field  glass  several  lark  sparrows  that  were  flitting 
about  on  the  ground  in  an  adjacent  patch  of  some  kind. 
The  birds  were  singing  as  only  these  beautiful  sparrows 
can,  and  the  quiet  of  the  evening  lent  an  idyllic  charm 


152  Bird  Comrades 

to  their  rich  and  varied  chansons.  On  the  other  side  of 
a  small  stream  stood  a  shanty,  in  the  door  of  which  sat 
an  old  negro  woman.  In  looking  at  the  birds,  I  some- 
times turned  the  glass  toward  the  shanty,  although  too 
intent  on  my  studies  to  notice  it.  Presently  the  woman 
could  no  longer  endure  my  apparent  espionage,  and  so 
she  said:  "Go  'bout  yer  own  business,  mister,  'n'  don' 
ye  be  spyin'  inter  my  house! " 


TROUBLE    AMONG    THE    BIRDS* 

EVEN  at  the  risk  of  causing  a  feeling  of  dejection 
on  the  reader's  part,  I  am  going  to  put  one 
"  trouble"  chapter  into  this  volume.  There  are 
trials  in  the  birds'  domain,  and  perhaps  you  and  I  will 
feel  more  sympathy  with  them,  and  will  be  led  to  protect 
them  all  the  more  carefully,  if  we  know  something  about 
the  "deep  waters  of  affliction"  through  which  they  are 
sometimes  compelled  to  pass.  Our  native  American 
birds,  at  least  some  of  them,  suffer  a  good  deal  at  the 
hands,  so  to  speak,  of  the  pestiferous  English  sparrows, 
which  were  introduced  into  this  country  by  some  egre- 
gious blunder. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  English  sparrows  are 
regular  bullies.  They  do  not  fight  other  birds  so  much 
as  they  hector  them,  making  life  intolerable  by  their 
ribaldry,  coarse  jests,  and  prying  manners.  Some  birds, 
especially  many  of  our  beautiful  native  species,  are 
sensitively  organized,  and  cannot  endure  such  boorish 
society  as  the  badly  bred  foreigners  furnish.  That  as 
much  as  anything  has  driven  our  genteel  bluebirds  away 
from  our  homes  into  the  woods  and  other  out-of-the-way 
places.  How  would  you  feel,  my  friend,  if,  as  you  were 

*The  larger  part  of  this  chapter  was  first  published  in  "The  Christian  Endeavor  World," 
Boston;  the  rest  of  it  in  "Our  Animal  Friends,  New  York.  I  reprint  it  here  by  permission  of 
both  these  journals. 

153 


154  Bird  Comrades 

going  along  the  street,  a  lot  of  hoodlums  should  take  to 
gibing  and  hooting  at  you? 

Were  there  ever  such  pesky,  ill-mannered  citizens  as 
the  English  sparrows?  Here  comes  a  downy  woodpecker, 
or  a  cardinal,  or  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak  to  town,  flitting 
about  the  trees  of  my  yard,  gathering  goodies  among  the 
leaves  and  twigs,  and  perhaps  piping  a  little  aria  at  inter- 
vals, congratulating  himself  on  having  found  a  pleasant, 
quiet  place,  when,  lo!  a  gang  of  English  sparrows  crowd 
around  him,  peering  at  him  now  with  one  eye,  now  with 
the  other,  canting  their  heads  in  their  impertinent  way, 
bowing  and  scraping  and  blinking,  and  for  all  the  world 
seeming  to  make  such  derisive  remarks  as,  "  Oh,  what  a 
fine  fellow!  Quite  stuck-up,  ain't  he?  Isn't  that  a  stylish 
topknot,  though  ?  He !  he !  he !  Look !  he  wears  a  rose 
on  his  shirt  bosom!  Isn't  he  a  dandy?  Ge!  ge!  gah!  gah!" 
By  and  by  the  visitor  can  stand  the  racket  and  the 
mockery  no  longer ;  and  so  he  steals  away,  resolved  never 
again  to  go  to  that  place  to  be  insulted.  I  have  repeat- 
edly been  witness  of  just  such  occurrences. 

Early  in  the  spring  a  robin  began  to  build  her  nest  in 
the  middle  story  of  one  of  my  maple  trees.  The  whole 
•process  was  narrowly  watched  by  the  noisy,  hectoring 
sparrows.  They  gathered  about  her,  prying  and  bob- 
bing and  jostling  and  chirping,  staring  at  her  like  a  lot 
of  bumpkins  when  she  leaped  into  the  half -finished  cup 
and  molded  her  building  material  with  her  ruddy  bosom. 
They  seemed  to  be  saying  jeeringly;  "  Isn't  that  a  funny 
way  for  a  bird  to  build  a  house?  Hay!  hay!  hay!"  The 


Trouble  Among  the  Birds  155 

robin  forsook  her  nest;  and  the  sparrows  borrowed  her 
timbers  for  their  own  nest,  and  forgot  to  bring  them  back 
again. 

Just  a  moment  ago  a  couple  of  young  red-heaaed 
woodpeckers  and  their  parents  visited  the  trees  of  my 
yard,  making  a  lively  din,  for  the  youngsters  were  calling 
for  their  supper.  Then  the  sparrows  crowded  about 
them,  called  and  jested,  followed  them  from  tree  to  tree, 
never  stopping  their  persecutions  until  the  red-headed 
family  flew  off  in  disgust. 

In  a  Kansas  town  one  March  day,  as  I  was  returning 
to  the  house  in  which  I  was  lodging,  my  attention  was 
attracted  to  a  black-capped  chickadee,  which  was  flitting 
about  and  calling  in  an  agitated  way  in  one  of  the  trees. 
Two  English  sparrows,  a  cock  and  his  mate,  were  respon- 
sible for  the  little  bird's  perturbation.  What  were  they 
doing  ?  Something  rude,  as  usual.  Perched  on  a  couple  of 
twigs,  they  were  bending  over,  stretching  out  their  necks 
and  peering  into  a  small  hole  in  one  of  the  larger  branches. 
The  male  was  especially  offensive,  standing  there  and  star- 
ing into  the  cavity,  and  making  insolent  remarks. 

A  good-sized  club,  hurled  by  myself,  sent  the  sparrows 
to  other  parts.  Then  I  hurried  into  the  house  and  sat 
by  the  curtained  window  to  watch.  With  much  ado,  the 
little  black-cap  flew  over  to  the  limb  with  the  cavity.  He 
flitted  about  a  few  moments,  then  darted  to  the  opening 
and  looked  in,  chirping  in  a  reassuring  tone,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "The  ruffians  are  gone  now;  you  can  come  out." 

And  out  of  the  doorway  flew  his  pretty  wife,  while  he 


156  Bird  Comrades 

slipped  in  to  see  that  all  was  safe.  You  see,  the  ill-bred 
sparrows  had  been  glaring  at  the  little  madam  as  she  sat 
on  her  nest,  which  was  a  piece  of  impertinence  that  no 
self-respecting  bird  could  endure  with  equanimity. 

The  English  sparrows  are  not  the  only  birds  that  dis- 
turb the  harmony  of  the  bird  realm.  Offenders  must 
needs  come  there  as  well  as  in  the  human  sphere.  A 
friend  who  is  entirely  trustworthy  tells  me  the  following 
story.  He  and  his  wife  were  driving  along  a  country 
road,  when  their  attention  was  directed  to  a  kingbird 
in  hot  pursuit  of  a  red-headed  woodpecker,  which  had 
evidently  been  poaching  on  the  first-named  bird's  pre- 
serves. Being  an  expert  flyer,  the  kingbird  had  almost 
overtaken  the  fugitive,  when  suddenly  the  red-head 
wheeled  to  one  side,  flung  himself  somehow  or  other  over 
a  telegraph  wire,  turning  at  the  same  time  and  catching 
with  his  claws  at  the  wire,  where  he  clung,  his  body  bent 
in  an  arc,  holding  his  enemy  at  bay  with  his  long,  pointed 
beak  and  spiny  tail.  Of  course,  the  martin  could  not 
attack  him  in  that  position,  as  he  could  not  afford  to  run 
the  risk  of  being  impaled  on  the  red-head's  spear. 

Nor  was  that  all.  The  martin  sailed  a  short  distance 
away,  and  the  woodpecker  thought  it  safe  to  take  to 
wing  again.  The  kingbird  again  started  in  swift  pursuit, 
filling  the  air  with  his  loud  chirping,  sure  of  his  game  this 
time;  but  he  was  balked,  as  before,  by  the  red-head's 
sudden  dash  to  the  telegraph  wire.  This  little  comedy 
was  repeated  several  times  while  my  friends  watched 
with  surprise  and  amusement. 


Trouble  Among  the  Birds  157 

There  is  tragedy  as  well  as  comedy  in  the  world 
of  feathers.  Ernest  Thompson  Seton's  graphic  animal 
stories  would  leave  a  pleasanter  taste  in  the  mouth  if 
they  ended  less  tragically,  but  they  would  not  be  so  true 
to  life  as.it  is  in  the  faunal  realm.  It  must  be  true  that 
the  lives  of  most  birds  and  animals  end  in  tragedy,  so 
numerous,  alert,  and  persistent  are  their  foes.  As  soon 
as  a  bird  begins  to  grow  old  and  infirm,  losing  its  keen- 
ness of  vision  and  its  swiftness  of  movement,  it  cannot 
help  falling  a  prey  to  its  rapacious  enemies.  For  this 
reason  you  seldom  find  a  feeble  animal  or  bird  in  the  open, 
or  one  that  has  lain  down  and  died  a  natural  death. 

However,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  have  found  the 
corpses  of  several  birds  in  the  wild  outdoors.  At  an 
abandoned  limestone  quarry  one  spring  I  discovered  the 
nest  of  a  pair  of  phcebes.  I  called  at  the  pretty  domicile 
a  number  of  times  in  my  rambles.  It  was  set  on  a  shelf 
of  one  stratum  of  rock,  and  roofed  over  by  another.  One 
day  I  noticed  the  little  dame  sitting  quietly  in  her  cup, 
and  decided  to  go  near;  just  why,  I  cannot  tell.  She 
did  not  move  as  I  approached;  she  did  not  even  turn  her 
head  to  look  at  me.  It  was  strange.  I  went  right  up 
to  the  nest,  and  yet  she  did  not  fly.  Stretching  out  my 
hand,  I  found  that  she  was  dead,  her  unhatched  eggs  still 
under  her  cold  and  pulseless  bosom. 

I  could  have  wept  for  my  little  friends.  There  was 
nothing  to  indicate  the  cause  of  the  tragedy,  no  disturb- 
ance of  the  nest,  no  marks  of  violence  on  her  body. 
Possibly  she  had  eaten  or  drunk  poison ;  perhaps  she  had 


158  Bird  Comrades 

received  a  fatal  blow  from  an  enemy,  and  had  just  had 
strength  enough  left  to  come  home  to  die.  Her  mate  was 
gone.  He  was  doubtless  unable  to  bear  the  ghastly  sight 
of  his  dead  companion  on  her  nest. 

A  little  field  sparrow  came  to  a  tragical  end  in  a  dif- 
ferent way.  I  found  his  body  dangling  among  the  bushes 
on  a  bank.  Two  small  but  tough  grapevine  twigs  grow- 
ing out  horizontally  and  close  together  formed  a  .very 
acute  angle,  and  this  was  the  trap  in  which  the  innocent 
bird  was  caught.  In  some  way  one  of  his  legs  had  slipped 
between  the  branches,  the  angle  of  which  became  more 
acute,  of  course,  toward  the  apex.  Thus  the  more  he 
struggled  the  more  tightly  his  tarsus  became  wedged  in 
the  trap,  the  foot  preventing  it  from  slipping  through. 
To  think  of  pushing  his  leg  backward,  and  so  releasing 
himself,  was  beyond  the  poor  bird's  cerebral  power;  so 
he  fluttered  until  exhausted,  then  dangled  there  to  die  of 
starvation.  The  place  being  very  secluded,  no  predatory 
beast  or  fowl  had  found  the  little  corpse. 

If  there  were  only  some  way  of  protecting  the  nests 
of  our  beautiful  and  useful  birds  of  the  wildwood,  what 
a  boon  it  would  be  to  men  and  fowls!  So  many  nests 
come  to  grief  that  one  wonders  sometimes  that  any  brood 
is  ever  reared.  During  a  recent  spring,  with  exhausting 
toil  and  patience,  I  found  the  nests  of  several  shy  wood- 
land birds  —  the  Kentucky,  the  hooded,  and  the  creep- 
ing warblers  —  all  of  them  real  discoveries  for  me.  I 
promised  myself  a  rare  treat  in  watching  the  development 
of  the  nurslings  from  babyhood  to  youth.  Alas!  all  the 


Trouble  Among  the  Birds  159 

nests  were  robbed,  those  of  the  Kentucky  and  hooded 
warblers  of  their  young,  and  that  of  the  creeping  warbler 
of  its  eggs.  I  trust  I  am  not  naturally  vindictive;  but 
had  I  the  brigands  in  my  power  who  despoiled  those 
nests,  I  certainly  should  wring  their  necks. 

Our  small  birds  must  ever  be  on  the  qm  vive.  Danger 
is  always  lurking  near,  as  a  few  concrete  cases  will  show. 
Brush  was  thrown  into  a  certain  hollow  well  known  to 
the  writer,  and  one  of  the  steep  hillsides  was  covered 
with  timber  of  a  medium-sized  growth.  One  day  I  was 
listening  to  a  concert  given  by  a  company  of  towhees  and 
cardinals,  which  were  sitting  in  the  trees  at  the  lower 
border  of  the  woodland.  A  flock  of  cedar  waxwings 
were  also  "tseeming"  in  the  top  of  a  tree,  darting  out  at 
intervals  into  the  air  for  insects.  Suddenly  every  song 
ceased,  and  the  whole  company  dashed  down,  pellmell, 
hurry-skurry,  into  the  thick  brush  heaps  of  the  hollow. 
At  the  same  moment,  or  perhaps  a  moment  later  —  ;t 
all  occurred  so  quickly  I  could  not  be  exact  —  a  covey 
of  juncos  hurled  themselves  with  reckless  swiftness  into 
the  brush  pile,  followed  by  a  sparrow  hawk,  which  uttered 
a  queer,  uncanny  call  that  meant  death  to  any  little  bird 
that  should  be  overtaken. 

He  flung  himself  through  a  network  of  branches  and 
twigs  and  lightly  struck  the  ground  below,  his  wings 
partly  opening  as  he  lit,  to  break  the  force  of  the  concus- 
sion. He  had  dashed  directly  over  my  head.  Before 
I  could  collect  my  wits  he  gathered  himself  together, 
wormed  his  way  out  through  the  branches  in  some  way, 
ll 


160  Bird  Comrades 

and  darted  off  up  the  opposite  slope.  He  had  failed  to 
secure  his  prize,  but  it  was  wonderful  how  so  large  a  bird 
could  slip  through  the  network  of  branches  and  extricate 
himself  without  striking  a  quill  against  a  twig. 

The  extreme  watchfulness  of  the  small  birds  cannot  fail 
to  excite  wonder  in  the  mind  of  the  observer.  In  the  case 
just  referred  to  not  one  of  the  birds  was  taken  unaware, 
although  some  of  them  were  singing  gaily,  and  others'were 
busy  feeding.  Never  for  a  moment  do  the  birds  becom? 
so  absorbed  in  their  eating  or  work  or  play  as  to  forget 
that  a  foe  may  be  lurking  near.  One  cannot  help  won- 
dering how  they  can  be  happy.  Suppose  we  were  com- 
pelled to  be  incessantly  on  the  lookout  for  danger,  should 
we  ever  have  a  moment  of  peace  or  joy? 

A  red -breasted  woodpecker  was  chiseling  out  a  nur- 
sery in  a  tall  sycamore  at  the  border  of  a  woodland.  At 
some  distance,  far  enough  away  not  to  alarm  her,  I 
watched  the  dame  at  her  work.  This  was  her  method  of 
procedure,,  hour  by  hour:  She  would  plunge  head  first 
into  the  hole,  only  her  barred  tail  being  visible,  give  three 
or  four  vigorous  dabs  with  her  bill,  then  emerge  and  look 
around  in  every  direction  for  danger ;  seeing  none,  into  the 
cavity  her  crimson-crowned  head  would  again  disappear, 
only  to  emerge  again  a  second  later.  Not  for  a  moment 
did  she  dare  to  relax  her  vigilance.  Had  she  done  so, 
in  that  fatal  moment  a  hawk  might  have  swooped  upon 
her  and  crushed  her  in  his  merciless  talons. 

Yet  some  birds  will  take  not  a  little  risk,  depending  on 
their  quickness  of  eye  and  nimbleness  of  wing  to  escape 


Trouble  Among  the  Birds  161 

their  predatory  foes.  In  a  tall  sycamore  tree  standing 
alone  at  the  fringe  of  a  piece  of  woodland,  sparrow  hawks, 
red-breasted  woodpeckers,  and  nuthatches,  a  pair  of  each, 
had  set  up  their  household  gods.  The  tree  was  still 
bare  of  foliage,  for  it  had  few  branches,  and  the  season 
was  early  spring.  It  was  evident,  too,  that  the  hawks 
were  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  assault  their  neigh- 
bors, to.  whom  they  often  gave  chase.  Yet  the  wood- 
peckers had  in  some  way  contrived  to  hew  out  their 
arboreal  nursery,  which  was  almost,  if  not  quite,  finished. 
It  was  a  freshly  chiseled  cavity,  as  could  be  seen  plainly 
from  below.  The  mother  nuthatch  was  feeding  her  young. 
She  would  fly  to  the  tree  with  an  insect  in  her  bill,  calling 
'  Yank,  yank,"  or  "  Ha-ha,  ha-ha,"  as  if  to  announce  her 
arrival,  then  glide  around  the  branch,  scurry  down  its 
sloping  wall,  swing  to  the  underside  where  the  nest  hole 
was,  and  jab  the  juicy  morsel  into  the  chirruping  throat 
of  one  of  the  bantlings  within.  The  bloodthirsty  hawk 
dashed  at  her  several  times,  but  she  deftly  dodged  around 
to  the  other  side  of  .the  branch,  and  let  him  glide  harm- 
lessly by,  flinging  after  him  a  taunting  "  Ha-ha,  ha-ha,"  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  Missed  your  aim  again,  didn't  you!" 
However,  it  was  a  pretty  picture  the  nuthatch  made,  hold- 
ing in  her  bill  a  large  beetle  with  silvery  wings,  sometimes 
holding  it  straight  out  from  the  bark  as  she  glanced 
around  to  see  whether  the  coast  was  clear  and  at  the  same 
time  calling  her  nasal' 'yank,"  so  full  of  woodsy  suggestion. 
A  trying  experience  for  many  birds  comes  at  bedtime. 
They  grow  quite  nervous  as  night  begins  to  settle  over 


1 62  Bird  Comrades 

the  land,  some  of  them  chirping  loudly  to  express  their 
solicitude.  As  the  darkness  deepens,  their  sight  becomes 
obscured,  and  they  seem  to  realize  that  they  are  exposed 
to  dangers  unseen.  You  have  often,  no  doubt,  noticed 
the  to-do  made  by  the  robins  as  the  time  for  retiring 
draws  near.  What  foes  may  be  lurking  in  the  growing 
darkness  they  know  not. 

A  favorite  roosting  place  for  the  sparrows,  towhees, 
juncos,  and  even  the  robins,  was  in  some  thickets  by  the 
roadside.  As  I  passed  along,  a  bird  would  occasionally 
leap  from  his  perch  to  the  ground  and  go  galloping  away 
over  the  rustling  leaves.  At  one  place  a  half  dozen 
Harris  sparrows  were  chirping  loudly  and  flitting  about 
a  couple  of  small  trees,  which  were  partly  covered  with  a 
thick  network  of  vines.  The  cause  of  their  uneasiness 
could  not  be  determined,  unless  it  was  their  natural  fear 
of  the  darkness.  I  waited  until  night  had  settled.  Pres- 
ently the  sparrows  became  quiet.  Tramping  about  near 
the  trees  did  not  disturb  them,  but  when  I  flung  a  lighted 
stick  against  one  of  the  trees,  they  flew  out  of  their 
matted  bedroom  with  loud  outcries.  For  a  few  minutes 
they  could  be  seen  dashing  about  from  tree  to  tree ;  then 
they  settled  down  for  the  night. 

In  view  of  the  many  trials  that  naturally  come  into 
the  life  of  the  birds,  we  should  be  all  the  kinder  to  them. 
Why  add  to  their  sorrows?  Let  me  give  you  an  example 
of  humane  treatment  in  one  case — that  of  the  quail  or 
bob- white.  Not  long  ago  I  listened  to  a  sensible  lecturer 
on  natural  history  subjects. 


BOB-WHITE,  OR  QUAIL 
Colinus  mrginianus 

(One-half  natural  size) 


Trouble  Among  the  Birds  163 

He  did  -not  say  we  should  never  kill  the  quail.  They 
have  evidently  been  created  for  man's  use,  or  they  would 
not  have  been  given  such  juicy  and  nutritious  flesh;  just 
as  many  other  fowls  and  animals  were  made  to  minister 
to  the  subsistence  and  pleasure  of  the  human  family. 
Besides,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  if  the  quail  were  all 
permitted  to  live  and  multiply,  they  would  soon  become 
so  abundant  as  to  do  much  harm  in  our  grain  fields.  So 
some  of  them  should  be  killed,  but  not  in  a  cruel  manner. 

One  thing  is  certain,  they  should  not  be  killed  with 
shotguns!  You  ask  at  once  and  in  some  surprise,  Why 
not?  Because  that  is  cruel.  Don't  you  see  how?  Well, 
that  is  the  way  with  most  of  us — we  do  many  things 
without  thinking.  It  is  not  cruel  to  kill  quail  with  a 
shotgun  providing  they  are  killed  outright.  But  have 
you  never  thought  how  many  of  the  fine  shot  must  wound 
some  of  the  birds  that  fly  away?  A  bird  with  several 
shots  in  its  body  may  not  be  fatally  hurt  at  first,  but 
will  fly  off  and  alight  somewhere  in  the  bushes  where  no 
hunter  can  find  it.  In  a  few  days  the  wounds  grow  sore, 
then  gangrene  sets  in,  and  the  bird  slowly  dies  in  awful 
torture.  No  one  to  help  it,  no  one  even  to  pity.  Is  not 
that  cruel? 

But  how  are  these  birds  to  be  treated?  They  should 
be  dealt  with  kindly,  fed  in  winter,  so  that  they  will 
become  comparatively  tame,  somewhat  like  the  fowl  of 
the  barnyard.  Then,  in  the  proper  season,  they  should 
be  caught  with  a  net.  This  can  be  done  by  placing  the 
nets  in  such  a  way  that  the  birds  will  run  into  them  about 
lla 


164  Bird  Comrades 

the  brush  heaps,  in  which  they  are  fond  of  taking  refuge. 
Skill  and  shrewdness  are  needed  to  catch  them  in  this 
way,  and,  perhaps,  it  cannot  be  done  while  they  are  shot 
at  so  much  and  are  made  so  shy;  but  the  time  will  come 
when  the  netting  of  quail  will  be  regarded  as  rare  sport 
in  America,  as  hawking  or  fox  hunting  is  in  England. 

When  the  birds  are  caught  their  heads  should  be 
snipped  off  as  you  do  those  of  domestic  fowls,  or  in  some 
other  way  that  is  as  painless  as  possible.  According  to 
this  plan  not  so  many  birds  can  be  secured,  it  is  true, 
but  it  would  be  -well  to  let  the  quail  become  more  abun- 
dant in  our  country,  for  in  certain  seasons  of  the  year 
they  destroy  certain  kinds  of  insects  that  do  much  harm 
to  the  grain.  Besides,  they  are  such  sweet  and  innocent 
birds  that  all  of  us  like  to  see  them  scuttling  along  by 
the  roadside,  and  listen  to  their  musical  calling  in  the 
clover  fields — "Bob  white!  bob  white!"  Then,  too,  if  they 
were  allowed  to  become  tame  and  plentiful,  we  might 
sometimes  have  the  luxury  of  quail's  eggs  on  our  tables. 


A    BIRD'S    EDUCATION* 

SO  far  as  regards   the  recent  discussion  as  to  how 
animals  learn,  whether  by  instinct  or  instruction, 
my  study  of  birds  leads  me  to  take  a  middle  posi- 
tion ;  perhaps  I  would  better  say  to  take  sides  with  both 
parties.     Birds  acquire  knowledge  partly  by  instinct  and 
partly  by  tutelage,  and  the  same  is  no  doubt  true  of  all 
other  animals.     This  statement  will  be  borne  out  by 
several  concrete  cases. 

Some  years  ago  I  made  a  number  of  experiments  in 
rearing  young  birds  taken  as  early  as  possible  from  the 
nest.  Among  them  were  meadowlarks,  red- winged  black- 
birds, brown  thrashers,  blue  jays,  wood  thrushes,  cat- 
birds, flickers,  red-headed  woodpeckers,  and  several  other 
species.  Nearly  all  of  them  were  secured  some  time 
before  they  were  naturally  ready  to  leave  their  natal 
places.  Without  any  instruction  from  parents  or  older 
birds  they  soon  left  the  nests  I  had  improvised  for  them, 
hopped  about  on  the  cage  floor  for  a  while,  and  presently 
insisted  on  clambering  upon  the  perches,  to  which  they 
clung  in  the  regulation  way.  Indeed,  I  noted  again  and 
again  that  the  impulse  to  seek  a  perch  was  so  strong  that 

*Reprinted  by  permission  from  "Forest  and  Stream." 

I6S 


1 66  Bird  Comrades 

the  young  birds  seemed  to  be  moved  to  it  by  an  impera- 
tive command.  Nor  were  they  long  satisfied  with  a  low 
perch,  but  instinctively  mounted  to  the  highest  one  they 
could  find. 

The  same  was  true  in  regard  to  flight.  No  feathered 
adult  was  present  to  tutor  them  in  the  art  of  using  their 
wings,  yet  they  soon  acquired  that  power  of  their  own 
accord.  It  was  inborn  —  the  gift  of  flight.  True,  they 
were  awkward  at  first,  and  gained  skill  only  by  degrees, 
but  the  original  impulse  was  in  their  constitution.  It  is 
no  doubt  true  that  parent  birds  in  the  outdoors  do  give 
their  young  lessons  in  flight,  but  if  the  bantlings  were 
left  to  themselves,  they  would  acquire  that  art  through 
their  original  endowment,  although  more  slowly  and  with 
many  more  hard  knocks. 

As  every  one  knows,  juvenile  birds  at  first  open  their 
mouths  for  their  food.  Proof  may  not  be  at  hand  for  the 
opinion,  but  I  am  disposed  to  believe  that  they  never  need 
to  be  told  by  their  parents  to  do  that;  their  instincts 
prompt  them.  It  must  be  so,  I  think,  for  to  suppose  that 
the  bird  baby  only  a  day  or  two  from  the  shell  could 
understand  a  parental  command  to  open  its  mouth  would 
be  to  presume  that  it  has  the  instinct  to  grasp  the  mean- 
ing of  such  a  behest,  and  that  is  more  difficult  to  believe 
than  that  Nature  simply  impels  it  to  take  its  food  by  open- 
ing its  mandibles. 

Now,  when  the  young  birds  are  taken  from  the  nest  and 
reared  by  hand,  they  insist  for  a  long  time  on  being  fed 
in  the  juvenile  manner.  However,  by  and  by  they  begin 


A  Bird's  Education  167 

of  their  own  volition  to  pick  up  food  after  the  manner  of 
the  adults.  At  first  they  are  very  clumsy  about  it,  but 
they  persevere  until  they  acquire  skill,  and  presently  they 
refuse  entirely  to  open  their  mandibles  for  food.  Here 
again  Nature  is  their  sole  guide.  Without  human  or 
avian  suggestion  they  also  learn  to  drink  in  the  well- 
known  bird  fashion;  also  to  bathe,  chirp,  frolic,  and  do 
many  other  things.  Who  has  ever  seen  a  pet  bird  in 
drinking  try  to  lap  like  a  dog,  or  take  in  long  draughts 
like  a  cow  or  a  horse  ?  No ;  Nature  made  them  birds,  and 
birds  they  will  be.  It  is  noticeable,  too,  that  when  birds 
begin  to  peck,  or  bathe,  or  seek  a  perch,  they  do  not 
usually  act  as  if  they  were  deliberately  planning  to  do  so, 
nor  as  if  they  were  carrying  on  some  process  of  thought 
leading  to  choice,  but  rather  as  if  they  were  impelled 
by  Nature  to  do  so. 

The  chirping  of  birds  is  mostly,  if  not  wholly,  a  matter 
of  inheritance.  For  instance,  my  little  wood  thrushes, 
as  soon  as  they  reached  a  sufficient  age,  called  just  like 
their  relatives  of  the  sylvan  solitudes ;  my  brown  thrashers 
uttered  the  labial  chirp  of  the  species;  my  red- winged 
blackbird  exclaimed  "Chack!  chack!"  after  the  manner 
of  his  kind;  my  bluebirds  expressed  their  feelings  in  the 
sad  little  purr  of  Sialia  sialis;  my  flickers  did  not  borrow 
the  calls  of  the  red-heads,  but  each  clung  to  its  own  lan- 
guage ;  my  catbirds  mewed  like  poor  pussy  in  trouble ;  and 
so  on  through  the  whole  list.  True,  these  pets  may  have 
heard  their  parents'  calls  before  they  were  taken  from 
the  nest,  but  it  is  not  at  all  likely  that  they  would  have 


1 68  Bird  Comrades 

remembered  them,  for  at  first  they  only  "  cheeped"  after 
the  manner  of  most  bantlings,  and  only  a  good  while 
afterward  did  they  fall  to  using  the  adult  chirp.  Besides, 
while  still  in  the  nest,  they  must  have  heard  many  other 
bird  calls;  why  did  they  not  acquire  them?  .Heredity  has 
laid  a  strong  hand  upon  birds,  and  has  drawn  sharp  divid- 
ing lines  among  the  various  species. 

Instinct  also  plays  a  large  part  in  moving  the  bird  to 
sing  and  to  render  the  peculiar  arias  of  its  kind.  For 
instance,  a  pet  wood  thrush  of  mine,  secured  at  an  early 
age  and  kept  far  away  from  all  his  kith  of  the  wildwood, 
became  a  fine  musician.  And  what  do  you  suppose  was 
the  tune  he  executed?  It  was  the  sweet,  dreamy,  some- 
what labored  song  of  the  wood  thrush  in  his  native  wilds. 
He  never  sang  any  other  tune.  I  think  he  sang  it  better 
than  any  wild  thrush  I  have  ever  heard.  It  was  louder, 
clearer,  more  full-toned,  but  the  quality  of  voice  and  the 
technique  were  precisely  the  same.  Who  was  his  teacher  ? 
No  one  but  Nature,  heredity,  instinct,  whatever  you  choose 
to  call  it.  There  was  no  wild  thrush  within  a  half  mile  of 
his  cage. 

The  case  of  a  pet  thrasher  was  almost  as  striking.  It 
is  true,  he  may  have  heard  several  of  his  kin  singing  about 
the  premises  during  the  first  spring  of  his  captivity,  but 
it  is  not  probable  that  he  learned  their  melodies  so  early 
in  life.  As  the  next  spring  approached,  he  began  to  sing 
the  very  medleys  that  the  wild  thrashers  sing  with  so 
much  earnestness  and  skill,  and  this  was  long  before  any 
thrashers  had  come  back  from  the  South. 


AMERICAN  ROBIN 
Merula  migratoria 

(One-ha'f  natural  size) 


A  Bird's  Education  169 

I  must  now  describe  several  cases  in  which  inherited 
instinct  did  not  prove  so  true  a  teacher.  A  young  robin 
was  once  given  me  by  a  friend,  and  was  kept  by  myself 
and  others  until  the  following  summer.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  he  never  acquired  the  well-known  robin  carol. 
Sometimes  there  were  vague  hints  of  it  in  his  vocal  per- 
formances, but  for  the  most  part  he  whistled  strains  in  a 
loud,  shrill  tone  that  no  wild  robin  ever  dreamed  of  inflict- 
ing on  the  world.  They  were  more  like  crude  human 
efforts  at  whistling  than  anything  else.  Indeed,  I  think 
they  were  picked  up  from  the  whistling  he  heard  about 
the  house.  Some  of  his  strains  were  very  sweet,  and  all 
of  them  were  wonderful  for  a  bird.  A  friend  played 
" Yankee  Doodle"  on  a  cornet,  and  Master  'Rastus  —  for 
that  was  his  name  —  gave  a  very  fair  and  funny  imita- 
tion of  part  of  the  air.  There  were  many  robins  caroling 
in  the  trees  about  the  premises,  and  'Rastus  was  often 
left  out  of  doors  among  them,  but  he  never  acquired  the 
red-breast  minstrelsy. 

A  similar  instance  was  that  of  a  pet  red-winged  black- 
bird, which,  instead  of  whistling  the  labored  "Grook-o- 
lee"  of  his  species,  learned  to  mimic  all  kinds  of  sounds 
in  and  out  of  the  house,  among  them  the  crowing  of  the 
cocks  of  the  barnyard.  These  two  instances  would  indi- 
cate that  some  birds  must  at  least  be  associated  with  their 
kin  in  order  to  learn  the  songs  of  their  species. 

My  comical  pet  blue  jay  gave  proof  of  the  need  of 
parental  training.  While  he  intuitively  called  like  a  jay, 
he  never  was  able  to  sing  the  sweet,  gurgling  roulade  of  the 


170  Bird  Comrades 

wild  jays.  On  the  contrary,  he  treated  us  to  all  kinds 
of  odd,  imitative,  mirth-provoking  performances  that  no 
self-respecting  jay  in  the  open  would  think  of  enacting. 
After  several  months  of  cage  life  he  was  given  his  liberty. 
Now,  indeed,  he  showed  his  lack  of  jay  bringing  up,  and 
how  little,  in  some  respects,  mere  instinct  can  be  relied  on. 
When  evening  came  he  perched  on  a  limb  of  the  maple 
tree  before  the  house,  in  a  place  as  exposed,  as  he  could 
well  find,  not  knowing  that  there  was  more  danger  in  an 
outdoor  roost  than  in  his  shielding  cage.  I  could  not 
induce  him  to  come  down,  nor  could  I  climb  out  to  the 
branch  on  which  he  sat,  and  so  I  was  compelled  to  leave 
him  out  of  doors. 

The  next  morning  he  was  safe,  the  screech  owls  of  the 
neighborhood  having  overlooked  him  in  some  way.  The 
next  evening  he  went  to  roost  in  the  same  exposed  place, 
and  that  was  the  last  I  ever  saw  of  my  beloved  pet.  He 
was  undoubtedly  killed  and  devoured  by  the  owls.  Had 
he  been  reared  out  of  doors  in  the  usual  way,  his  parents 
would  have  taught  him  to  find  a  roosting  place  that  was 
secure  from  predatory  foes.  No  one  has  ever  seen  a  wild 
jay  sleeping  in  an  exposed  place. 

In  her  charming  little  book,  "  True  Bird  Stories,"  Mrs. 
Olive  Thorne  Miller  says  that  she  "once  watched  the 
doings  in  a  crow  nursery."  I  quote: 

"The  most  important  thing  the  elders  had  to  do  was 
to  teach  the  youngsters  how  to  fly,  and  every  little  while 
one  or  both  of  the  parents  would  fly  around  the  pasture, 
giving  a  peculiar  call  as  they  went.  This  call  appeared  to 


A  Bird's  Education  171 

be  an  order  to  the  little  folks  to  follow,  for  all  would  start 
•up  and  circle  round  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  drop 
back  to  the  fence  or  the  ground  to  rest. 

"  Once,  while  I  was  watching  them,  this  cry  was  given, 
and  all  flew  as  usual  except  one  bob-tailed  baby,  who 
stood  on  a  big  stone  in  the  middle  of  the  field.  He  was 
perhaps  so  comfortable  that  he  did  not  want  to  go,  or  it 
may  be  he  was  afraid,  and  thought  mamma  would  not 
notice  him.  But  mothers'  eyes  are  sharp,  and  she  did  see 
him.  She  knew,  too,  that  baby  crows  must  learn  to  fly ; 
so  when  all  came  down  again  she  flew  right  at  the  naughty 
bird,  and  knocked  him  off  his  perch.  He  squawked,  and 
fluttered  his  wings  to  keep  from  falling,  but  the  blow  came 
so  suddenly  that  he  had  not  time  to  save  himself,  and  he 
fell  flat  on  the  ground.  In  a  minute  he  clambered  back 
upon  his  stone,  and  I  watched  him  closely.  The  next 
time  the  call  came  to  fly  he  did  not  linger,  but  went  with 
the  rest,  and  so  long  as  I  could  watch  him  he  never  dis- 
obeyed again." 

This  is  evidence  not  only  of  parental  teaching,  but  also 
of  parental  discipline.  Here  is  another  bit  from  the  same 
volume,  bearing  its  lesson  on  its  face.  "A  lady  told  me 
a  funny  story  about  a  robin.  He  was  brought  up  in  the 
house  from  the  nest,  and  never  learned  to  sing  the  robin 
song,  for  he  had  not  heard  it.  He  plainly  tried  to  make 
some  sort  of  music,  and  one  of  the  family  taught  him  to 
whistle  'Yankee  Doodle'.  He  whistled  it  perfectly,  and 
never  tried  to  sing  anything  else.  Once  this  Yankee 
Doodle  robin  got  out  of  the  house  and  flew  up  into  a  tree. 


172  Bird  Comrades 

When  the  wild  birds  came  about  him  he  entertained  them 
by  whistling  his  favorite  air,  which  sent  the  birds  off  in 
a  panic." 

Do  not  the  facts  recited  in  this  sketch  prove  that  birds 
know  and  acquire  some  things  through  the  promptings 
of  instinct,  while  other  things  they  can  learn  only  by 
avian  teaching? 

My  notes  on  instinct  and  education  in  bird  song  corre- 
spond with  the  conviction  expressed  by  Dr.  W.  H.  Hudson 
on  page  257  of  his  interesting  book  entitled  "The  Natur- 
alist in  La  Plata,"  fourth  edition,  1903:  "It  is  true  that 
Daines  Barrington's  notion  that  young  song  birds  learn 
to  sing  only  by  imitating  the  adults,  still  holds  its  ground; 
and  Darwin  gives  it  his  approval  in  his  *  Descent  of  Man'. 
It  is  perhaps  one  of  those  doctrines  which  are  partly 
true,  or  which  do  not  contain  the  whole  truth;  and  it  is 
possible  to  believe  that,  while  many  singing  birds  do  so 
learn  their  songs,  or  acquire  a  greater  proficiency  in  them 
from  hearing  the  adults,  in  other  species  the  song  comes 
instinctively,  and  is,  like  other  instincts  and  'habits, 
purely  an  'inherited  memory'."  What  Dr.  Hudson  sur- 
mises may  be  the  case,  I  believe  my  experiments  have 
proved  to  be  true. 


ARE  BIRDS  SINGERS  OR  WHISTLERS?* 

N"OT  a  little  discussion  has  arisen  among  the  dissect- 
ors as  to  the  anatomy  of  bird  song.  Into  this 
controversy  I  shall  not  enter — at  least,  not  in 
a  controversial  spirit — but  shall  recount  only  what  may 
be  regarded  as  the  best  and  latest  results  of  scientific 
research.  How  does  a  bird  produce  the  melodious  notes 
that  emanate  from  his  throat?  Are  they  manufactured 
far  down  in  the  trachea,  or  only  at  its  anterior  opening? 
Are  they  voice  tones  or  flute  tones?  These  questions  will 
be  answered  as  we  proceed  to  examine  the  bird's  lyrical 
apparatus  without  going  into  wearisome  detail,  or  mak- 
ing use  of  many  difficult  scientific  terms,  which  are  the 
bane  of  the  general  reader. 

Let  me  begin  at  the  upper  end  of  the  avian  singing 
machine  —  that  is,  with  the  mouth,  including  the  bill, 
the  lips  of  which  are  called  mandibles.  Just  as  the  move- 
ments of  the  human  lips  have  much  to  do  with  the  modi- 
fications of  the  human  voice,  so  the  opening  and  closing 
of  the  bird's  mandibles  exercise  a  modifying  influence 
upon  avicular  tones.  If  it  were  not  so,  the  feathered 
minstrel  would  not  keep  his  mandibles  in  such  constant 
motion  during  his  lyrical  recitals.  You  will  notice  that 
whenever  he  desires  to  strike  a  very  high  and  loud  note 

*Reprinted  by  permission  from  "Our  Animal  Friends." 

173 


174  Bird  Comrades 

he  opens  his  mandibles  quite  widely,  sometimes  almost 
to  the  fullest  possible  extent. 

However,  the  expansion  and  contraction  of  the  throat 
orifice,  no  doubt,  produce  still  more  marked  variations 
in  the  tones  of  the  vocalist;  yet  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  closed  or  partly  closed  mandibles  will  obstruct  the 
passage  of  the  air  from  the  throat,  while  open  mandibles 
will  permit  of  a  full  passage  of  the  air  current,  arid  the 
tones  will  vary  accordingly.  Besides,  the  roof  of  the 
bird's  mouth  is  grooved  or  convex,  and  therefore  the  char- 
acter of  the  sounds  will  be  somewhat  dependent  upon  the 
position  and  movement  of  the  upper  mandible. 

And  then  there  is  the  bird's  tongue,  which  is  con- 
stantly in  motion  while  the  musical  rehearsal  is  going  on. 
Throughout  its  entire  length  it  can  be  raised  and  lowered 
at  the  bird's  will,  or  be  made  to  quiver  and  roll,  and  by 
this  means  the  air  column  forced  up  from  the  lungs  is 
manipulated  in  a  wonderful  way,  producing  in  some  cases 
an  almost  unlimited  variety  of  modulation. 

Within  the  bird's  neck  two  elastic  tubes  run  down 
from  the  mouth  into  the  chest.  One  of  them  is  the  gullet 
or  sesophagus,  which  is  the  channel  through  which  the 
bird's  food  descends  into  the  crop  and  gizzard.  The 
other  little  cylinder  lies  in  front  of  the  gullet,  and  is  called 
the  windpipe  or  trachea,  and  reaches  down  to  the  lungs, 
which  are  the  bellows  furnishing  the  wind  for  the  avian 
pipe  organ.  As  Dr.  Coues  says,  the  trachea  is  "  com- 
posed of  a  series  of  very  numerous  gristly  or  bony  rings 
connected  together  by  an  elastic  membrane,"  and  is  sup- 


Are  Birds  Singers  or  Whistlers?  175 

plied  with  an  intricate  set  of  muscles  by  which  it  can  be 
shortened  or  elongated  at  the  will  of  the  songster  himself. 

Now  let  us  look  at  the  upper  end  of  this  wonderful 
pneumatic  pipe,  which  so  often  throws  Pan  and  all  his 
coterie  into  a  transport  when  the  thrasher  and  the  wood 
thrush  flute  their  dithyrambs.  Here  we  find  the  larynx. 
It  is  simply  the  anterior  specialized  portion  of  the  trachea, 
located  at  the  base  of  the  tongue,  and  in  mammals  is 
honored  as  the  voice  organ,  whereas  in  birds  it  is  distin- 
guished as  the  fluting  apparatus,  the  instrument  that 
really  produces  the  varied  vocalization  of  the  bird  realm. 
But  the  music  is  not  the  product  of  vocal  cords,  as  is  the 
case  in  the  human  larynx,  for  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
avian  larynx  there  is  a  slit  or  fissure,  somewhat  elliptical 
in  form,  and  set  in  the  fork  of  the  hyoid  bone,  which  con- 
stitutes the  bifurcated  root  of  the  tongue.  This  fissure 
is  called  the  glottis.  At  the  bird's  fiat,  it  can  be  opened 
and  closed  and  made  to  assume  a  great  variety  of  forms. 
Moreover,  just  in  front  of  it  there  is  a  fold  of  mucous  mem- 
brane called  the  epiglottis,  which  is  in  reality  a  tiny  trap- 
door closing  over  the  opening  when  necessity  requires. 
When  the  bird  swallows  food  or  drink,  this  little  flap  shuts 
down,  and  prevents  the  entrance  of  any  clogging  substance 
into  the  windpipe  to  choke  the  feathered  diner. 

We  have  now  come  to  the  most  strategic  point  in  our 
investigation  of  the  anatomy  of  bird  song,  for  in  the  avian 
world  a  special  distinction  has  been  conferred  upon  that 
little  orifice  in  the  bird's  throat  called  the  glottis.  It  is 
here  that  all  the  music,  as  well  as  all  other  so-called  vocal 


176  Bird  Comrades 

sounds,  are  generated  —  they  are  simply  piped  or  fluted 
through  a  slit,  so  that  birds  are  whistlers,  not  singers 
or  vocalists.  I  repeat,  so  that  my  meaning  may  be  per- 
fectly clear  —  bird  music  is  not  produced  by  means  of 
vocal  cords,  as  is  the  music  of  the  human  throat,  but  by 
means  of  a  whistling  aperture  in  the  larynx.  And  that 
wonderful  cleft  has  been  placed  there  for  that  specific  pur- 
pose. Properly  speaking,  therefore,  the  feathered  choralist 
does  not  have  a  voice,  but  only  a  wind  instrument; 
albeit  a  marvelous  contrivance  it  is. 

It  will  be  easy  now  to  see  how  the  bird's  tones  are 
capable  of  a  large  variety  of  modulations.  The  glottis  is 
controlled  by  a  system  of  muscles  that  are  perfectly  obe- 
dient, within  their  limits,  to  the  bird's  volitions,  and  thus 
it  may  be  made  to  assume  a  great  number  of  different 
forms,  each  giving  expression  to  a  different  vocal  effect. 
The  shape  of  the  glottis  is  also  modified  in  numerous  ways 
by  the  movement  of  the  tongue  and  mandibles.  Nor  is 
that  all,  for  the  air  column  pumped  up  from  the  lungs 
may  be  increased  or  diminished  at  will,  a  very  strong 
current  producing  a  loud  tone,  and  a  feeble  current  a  low 
one.  The  elongation  or  contraction  of  the  whole  throat 
will  also  modify  the  pneumatic  column,  and  thereby  alter 
the  quality  of  the  tones. 

We  may  go  still  further  in  our  analysis.  Suppose  a 
bird  should  open  his  mouth  and  throat  as  widely  as  possi- 
ble, hold  all  his  lyrical  organs  steady,  and  blow  his  wind- 
pipe with  all  the  strength  his  lungs  could  command,  it  is 
obvious  that  the  effect  would  be  a  clear,  loud,  uniform 


Are  Birds  Singers  or  Whistlers?  177 

whistle,  such  as  the  meadowlark  sends  across  the  green 
fields.  But  suppose  he  desires  to  "  blow  a  dreamy  hautbois 
note,  slender  and  refined  as  ever  stirred  the  air  of  Arcady 
or  trembled  in  the  vineyards  of  old  Provence,"  then  all 
the  musician  in  plumes  needs  to  do  is  to  contract  the  slit 
in  his  throat,  depress  his  tongue,  almost  ciose  his  mandi- 
bles, and  simply  allow  a  slender  air  current  to  sift  from  the 
lungs  through  the  syrinx  and  out  of  the  glottis.  What  if 
the  whim  should  seize  him  to  pipe  a  trill  or  a  quaver  to  the 
water  witches  of  the  meadow,  as  Master  Song  Sparrow  so 
often  chooses  to  do?  Then  he  simply  needs  to  set  his 
tongue  and  throat  to  quivering,  and  you  have  his  enrap- 
ttiring  tremolo.  Beautiful,  is  it  not? 

There  are  birds  that  send  a  kind  of  guttural  sound  from 
their  throats,  such  as  the  cuckoos  and  occasionally  the 
blue  jays.  Notice  the  cuckoo  as  he  utters  his  call,  which 
every  swain  interprets  as  the  harbinger  of  a  coming 
shower,  and  you  will  observe  that  his  throat  bulges  out 
like  that  of  a  croaking  frog,  and  quivers  at  the  same  time 
in  a  convulsed  way.  It  is  plain  that  the  air  about  to  be 
forced  from  the  glottis  is  flung  back  by  some  muscular 
action  and  set  to  vibrating  in  the  laryngean  cavity,  thus 
giving  the  sound  its  croaking  quality  when  the  elastic 
current  is  finally  released. 

Now,  if  the  reader  will  pucker  up  his  lips  and  whistle 
a  tune,  he  will  notice  that  the  sound  is  actually  produced 
at  the  small  labial  orifice  and  nowhere  else;  however,  the 
tones  are  modified  and  modulated  at  will  in  a  variety  of 
ways  —  by  a  deft,  though  almost  imperceptible,  manipu- 


1 78  Bird  Comrades 

lation  of  the  tongue,  by  a  slight  enlargement  or  contrac- 
tion of  the  aperture,  and  especially  by  a  dexterous  control 
of  the  air  column  blown  from  the  lungs.  Just  so  the 
lyrists  of  fields  and  woods  pipe  their  roundels  and  chan- 
sons through  the  chink  in  their  throats,  save  that  in  the 
bird's  case  the  mouth  and  tongue  are  anterior  to  th 
whistling  aperture.  I  know  a  young  man  who  has 
trained  himself  so  as  to  be  able  to  mimic  to  perfection  the 
complex  songs  of  the  western  meadowlark  and  the  car- 
dinal grosbeak.  He  does  it  by  whistling. 

Near  the  lower  end  of  the  trachea,  just  above  the  lungs, 
there  is  a  specialized  organ  of  the  bird's  throat  called  the 
syrinx.  It  is  a  cylinder  formed  of  bony  rings,  provided 
with  a  mesh,  of  muscles,  and  having  membranous  folds 
which  act  as  valves  upon  the  two  orifices  of  the  bronchi 
leading  to  the  lungs.  Many  scientific  gentlemen  have 
declared  that  the  syrinx  is  the  voice  organ  of  the  birds, 
the  elastic  margins  of  the  folds  or  valves  being  set  to 
vibrating  by  the  projection  of  the  air  from  the  lungs,  and 
thus  producing  the  varied  lays  we  hear  in  the  outdoor 
concert.  However,  Mr.  Maurice  Thompson  —  who,  by  the 
way,  found  time  to  do  something  else  besides  writing 
"Alice  of  OldVincennes,"  and  something  just  as  creditable 
to  his  talent,  too  —  dissected  many  birds  with  special  refer- 
ence to  this  subject,  and  gave  close  attention  to  birds  in 
the  act  of  singing,  both  out  of  doors  and  in  captivity, 
and  I  am  convinced  that  he  proved  the  theory  of  the 
syringeal  origin  of  bird  song  to  be  an  erroneous  one. 

Only  two  reasons  need  be  adduced  for  this  conclusion. 


MEADOW  LARK 
Sturnella  magna 


Are  Birds  Singers  or  Whistlers?  179 

First,  it  is  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the  rich,  loud, 
clear  notes  of  the  thrasher,  the  cardinal,  and  the  mocking- 
bird, lilting  across  the  fields  and  capable  of  being  heard 
a  long  distance,  are  generated  far  down  in  the  lyrist's 
chest  by  the  vibrating  of  the  margin  of  a  tiny  mucous 
membrane.  If  it  had  its  genesis  there,  it  surely  would 
display  a  muffled  or  guttural  or  sepulchral  quality.  In 
the  second  place,  it  has  been  proved  by  actual  dissection 
that  the  shrike,  which  possesses  no  song  gift  worthy  of 
the  name,  has  a  well-developed  syrinx,  while  the  mocking- 
bird, our  feathered  minstrel  par  excellence,  has  a  syrinx 
that  is  absolutely  insignificant.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
shrike's  larynx,  including  the  glottis,  is  a  clumsy  affair, 
whereas  the  mocker's  larynx  is  indeed  wonderfully  made. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  the  syrinx  does 
not  perform  an  important  function  in  the  production  of 
avian  melody.  It  acts  as  a  regulator  or  meter  of  the  air 
impelled  from  the  lungs.  By  means  of -the  folds  or  mem- 
branous valves  the  mouths  of  the  bronchial  tubes  may  be 
opened  widely  or  almost  closed,  and  in  this  way,  to  quote 
from  Mr.  Thompson,  "  the  bird  is  enabled  to  measure  in  the 
nicest  manner  the  amount  of  air  thrown  from  the  lungs 
into  the  trachea."  In  producing  a  staccato,  for  example, 
the  valves  flop  up  and  down,  doling  out  the  air  at  the 
proper  intervals  and  in  precisely  the  right  quantities. 

Indeed,  nothing  in  the  world  of  Nature  is  more  won- 
derful than  the  gift  of  bird  song,  and  nothing  proves 
more  clearly  the  doctrine  of  design,  or,  at  least,  of  adap- 
tation to  a  specialized  purpose. 


BIRD    FLIGHT* 

THE  question  why  man  cannot  fly  may  be  answered 
in  a  very  simple  and  yet.  satisfactory  manner :  He 
has  not  been  organically  constructed  for  that  pur- 
pose. That  may  seem  like  cutting  the  Gordian  knot,  but, 
after  all,  it  is  the  only  explanation  that  can  be  given. 
You  might  as  well  ask  why  man  cannot  clutch  a  perch 
with  his  foot  after  the  manner  of  a  bird  or  a  monkey,  for 
the  response  would  be  the  same  —  his  foot  was  made  for 
walking,  and  not  for  prehensile  purposes.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  bird  cannot  grasp  an  object  with  its  wings, 
while  a  man's  hand  is  well  adapted  for  the  performance 
of  such  a  function.  Nature's  motto  in  her  whole  realm 
seems  to  be:  " Every  creature  after  its  kind." 

When  we  look  at  the  structure  of  the  flying  birds,  we 
see  at  once  that  they  were  formed  for  swift  locomotion 
through  the  air,  just  as  plainly  as  the  lithe  skiff  was  made 
to  glide  over  the  water  or,  the  carriage  to  spin  over  the 
land.  In  the  first  place,  the  body  of  the  bird  is  compara- 
tively light  —  that  is,  in  proportion  to  the  width,  strength, 
and  extent  of  its  wings.  By  its  thick,  light,  airy  covering 
of  feathers  its  body  is  made  still  more  buoyant,  besides 

*Reprinted  by  permission  from  "The  Evening  Post,"  New  York. 

180 


Bird  Flight  181 

presenting  a  larger  surface  to  the  supporting  air  with 
very  little  additional  weight.  The  tail,  too,  with  its  long, 
closely  woven  quills  spread  out  like  a  fan,  not  only  serves 
the  purpose  of  a  rudder  for  guiding  the  aerial  craft,  but 
is  still  more  useful  in  helping  to  sustain  the  bird's  weight 
in  the  up-buoying  element. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  feathers  on  the  bodies 
of  the  flying  birds  are  arranged  in  tracts,  with  intervals 
here  and  there  of  quite,  or  almost,  bare  skin,  called 
"  apteria."  Now,  when  a  bird  is  carefully  skinned,  it  will 
be  seen  that  the  feathered  spaces  have  their  own  special 
slips  of  muscles  inserted  into  the  roots  of  the  feathers, 
and  when  these  muscles  are  contracted,  they  serve  to 
raise  the  feathers,  and  must,  therefore,  be  of  some  sub- 
sidiary value  in  flying,  by  making  the  bird's  body  more 
buoyant.  Suggestive,  indeed,  is  the  fact  that  the  plumes 
of  the  non-flyers  are  not  arranged  in  tracts,  but  are  evenly 
distributed  over  the  body. 

Nor  is  that  all  that  Nature  has  done  to  carry  out  her 
evident  purpose  of  making  the  bird  a  natural  "flying 
machine.1'  The  body  of  the  bird  contains  numerous  air 
sacs,  all  connected  with  the  lungs,  and  these,  when  inflated, 
are  a  great  help  in  flying  by  making  the  bird  light.  More 
than  that,  many  of  the  bones,  though  strong,  have  thin 
walls  and  are  hollow,  the  cavities  being  connected  with 
the  lungs  and  air  sacs,  from  which  they  are  also  filled 
with  air,  contributing  another  element  of  lightness  to  the 
aerial  navigator.  That  the  bird's  bones  are  capable  of 
being  permeated  with  air  can  be  demonstrated  by  actual 


1 82  Bird  Comrades 

experiment,  and  is,  therefore,  a  scientifically  established 
fact.  It  is  easy  enough  to  prove  it  in  this  way:  Take  a 
dead  bird  that  has  been  beheaded,  pass  a  syringe  into  its 
windpipe,  tie  it  carefully  so  that  the  air  cannot  escape  at 
the  sides,  then  blow  the  air  down  through  the  tube,  and  you 
will  be  able  to  follow  the  passage  of  the  air  into  the  skin 
and  other  parts  of  the  body.  Now,  if  you  will  cut  off 
one  of  the  bones,  you  can  detect  the  air  passing  from  the 
cut  surface;  and,  more  than  that,  as  a  scientific  English 
writer  says,  "  if  the  experiment  be  made  by  using  colored 
fluid  instead  of  air  —  which  is  pumped  in  by  a  syringe  - 
the  fluid  can  be  seen  to  ooze  from  the  ends  of  any  bone  or 
muscle  that  has  r?een  cut  across."  'Thus  it  is  seen  that 
the  whole  body  of  the  fowl  is  so  constructed  that  it  can 
be  pervaded  with  air. 

However,  while  all  parts  of  the  bird's  organism  com- 
bine to  produce  the  end  in  view,  the  special  instruments 
of  flight  are  the  wings.  They  are  really  the  fore  limbs  of 
the  fowl,  but  differ  in  many  respects  from  the  fore  limbs 
of  the  mammals.  They  are  under  the  control  of  muscles 
of  great  comparative  strength,  as  every  one  knows  who 
has  ever  been  beaten  by  the  wings  of  even  an  ordiriary 
barnyard  fowl,  which  has  meagre  powers  of  flight.  What, 
a  powerful  stroke  a  large  hawk  or  an  eagle  must  be  able 
to  deliver!  If  man's  arm  muscles  were  as  strong  in  pro- 
portion, he  might  have  some  hope  of  one  day  navigating 
the  air  on  artificial  wings,  but  it  is  due  principally  to  this 
muscular  weakness  that  Darius  Green  has  never  been  able 
to  make  a  success  of  his  flying  machine,  and  perhaps 


Bird  Flight  183 

never  will.  He  would  not  have  the  strength  to  wield 
wings  large  enough  to  sustain  so  much  avoirdupois  on 
the  yielding  air. 

The  wings  are  highly  specialized  members  of  the  avic- 
ular  organism,  and  hence  differ  in  many  important  respects 
from  the  fore  or  pectoral  limbs  of  the  mammals.  Begin- 
ning at  the  point  nearest  the  body,  let  us  examine  one  of 
these  wonderful  instruments.  The  wing  proper  begins  at 
the  shoulder  joint,  which  hinges  freely  upon  the  shoulder 
in  a  shallow  socket,  into  which  the  globular  head  of  the 
first  bone  fits  closely,  and  in  which  it  is  firmly  held  by  the 
powerful  muscles  that  control  the  organs  of  flight.  The 
first  bone  is  called  the  humerus,  and  is  the  largest  and 
strongest  bone  of  the  wing,  extending  from  the  shoulder 
to  the  elbow.  At  the  elbow,  which  is  the  first  angle  of 
the  wing,  reaching  backward  when  the  wing  is  folded,  the 
humerus  articulates  in  a  wisely  designed  way  with  two 
other  bones,  called  the  ulna  and  radius,  which  together 
constitute  the  forearm  and  extend  to  the  wrist  joint.  It 
must  be  remembered  that,  when  the  wing  is  closed,  the 
forearm  is  the  segment  that  reaches  obliquely  forward. 
The  wrist  joint  is  the  second  angle  of  the  wing.  In  the 
wrist  there  are  two  small  bones  (the  radiale  and  ulnare) 
which  serve  an  important  purpose  in  joining  the  forearm 
with  what  is  known  as  the  hand,  and  make  possible  the 
specialized  movement  of  the  two  parts  upon  each  other. 
The  hand  is  the  terminal  segment  of  the  wing,  composed 
of  the  metacarpal  bones  and  the  digits  or  fingers.  Of  the 
last-named  organs  there  are  ordinarily  three,  forming  a 

12 


184  Bird  Comrades 

graceful  tapering  point  to  the  wing,  and  giving  to  it 
the  symmetry  and  proportion  that  are  required  for  effect- 
ive use.  When  the  wing  is  folded,  the  hand  extends 
obliquely  downward  and  backward. 

Now,  these  bones  and  their  attendant  ligatures  are 
wonderfully  and  wisely  contrived.  The  humerus  moves 
freely  in  its  socket  in  the  shoulder,  so  that  it  can  be  swung 
in  every  required  direction,  and  yet,  as  should  be  the- case, 
its  principal  movement  is  -up  and  down  in  a  vertical  line 
-  the  precise  movement  required  for  the  effective  wing- 
strokes  in  flight.  But  note  further.  The  elbow  joint, 
unlike  that  of  the  shoulder,  is  a  rigid  hinge,  permitting 
motion  in  only  one  plane,  that  of  the  wing  itself,  or  nearly 
so.  The  same  is  true  of  the  wrist  joint,  which  holds  the 
hand  firmly,  allowing  no  motion  save  that  which  opens 
and  closes  the  wing.  The  wisdom  of  this  arrangement 
will  be  seen  at  a  glance. 

In  the  human  arm  the  hand  can  be  moved  in  every 
direction  with  the  greatest  freedom,  and,  moreover,  the 
wrist  may  be  turned  and  the  hand  laid  on  its  back,  its 
palm,  its  edge,  or  at  almost  any  conceivable  angle.  This 
is  a  very  convenient  contrivance  for  man,  but  it  would 
be  a  great  misfortune  for  our  avian  friends  if  their  wings 
would  rotate  so  readily;  for  in  that  case  they  would  not 
have  sufficient  rigidity  to  answer  the  purposes  of  flight, 
but  would  be'  twisted  into  every  position  by  the  assaults 
of  the  air  currents.  Besides,  even  in  ordinary  flight  it 
would  require  a  constant  muscular  effort  to  keep  the  wings 
in  the  proper  position.  How  wisely  Nature  has  devised 


Bird  Flight  185 

the  bird's  flying  apparatus!  When  outstretched,  it  is 
held  firmly  by  the  power  of  its  own  mechanism,  with  its 
broad  under  surface  lying  horizontally,  and  no  breezy 
current  can  bend  or  twist  it  from  its  normal  position. 

The  set  of  muscles  that  open  the  wing  are  called  the 
extensors,  and  those  that  close  it,  the  flexors.  The  former 
lie  upon  the  back  of  the  upper  arm  and  the  front  of  the 
forearm  and  the  hand,  their  tendons  passing  over  the 
convexities  of  the  elbow  and  wrist,  while  the  flexors 
occupy  the  opposite  sides,  and  their  tendons  run  up  into 
the  concavities  of  the  joints.  There  are  several  powerful 
pectoral  muscles  which  run  out  from  the  shoulder  and 
breast,  and  operate  upon  the  upper  end  of  the  humerus, 
and  with  these  the  wing  is  lifted  and  the  strokes  are  made 
during  flight. 

Another  mechanical  contrivance  deserves  attention. 
An  extremely  elastic  cord  reaches  over  from  the  shoulder 
to  the  wrist  joint,  supporting  a  fold  of  skin  that  occupies 
the  deep  angle  of  the  elbow,  and  that  is  covered  with  short, 
fluffy  feathers.  When  the  bird  is  flying,  this  cord  is 
stretched  and  forms  the  front  edge  of  that  section  of  the 
wing.  But,  now,  suppose  the  wing  is  closed,  will  not  this 
cord  make  a  cumbersome  fold,  flapping  loosely  in  the 
angle  of  the  elbow?  Such  would,  indeed,  be  the  case,  did 
not  its  extreme  elasticity  enable  it  to  contract  to  the 
proper  length,  so  as  to  keep  the  wing's  border  straight 
and  smooth. 

Without  the  feathers  the  wing  would  be  useless  as  an 
instrument  of  flight.  The  shorter  plumes  that  shield  the 


T86  Bird  Comrades 

bases  of  the  long  quill  feathers  are  called  the  coverts, 
which  are  found  on  both  the  upper  and  under  surfaces  of 
the  wing.  Thev  are  divided  into  several  sets,  according 
to  the  position  they  occupy,  and  are  called  the  "primary 
coverts"  (because  they  overlie  the  bases  of  the  primaries), 
the  "greater  coverts/'  the  "middle  coverts,"  and  the 
"  lesser  coverts."  Forming  a  vast  expansion  of  the  bony 
and  fleshy  framework  are  the  quills,  or  flight-feathers, 
called  collectively  the  "remiges."  These  plumes  mainly 
determine  the  contour  of  the  wing,  and  constitute  a  thin, 
elastic  surface  for  striking  the  air — one  that  is  suffi- 
ciently resilient  to  give  the  proper  rebound  and  yet  firm 
enough  to  support  the  bird's  weight.  The  longest  quills 
are  those  that  grow  on  the  hand  or  outer  extremity  of  the 
wing  and  are  known  as  the  primaries.  What  are  called 
the  secondaries  are  attached  to  the  ulna  of  the  forearm, 
while  the  tertiaries  occupy  the  humerus  and  are  next  to 
the  body.  All  these  feathers  are  so  placed  relatively 
that  the  stiff  outer  vane  of  each  quill  overlaps  the  more 
flexible  inner  vane  of  its  successor,  like  the  leaves  of  certain 
kinds  of  fans,  thus  presenting  an  unbroken  surface  to  the 
air.  As  to  the  structure  of  these  plumes,  they  combine 
firmness,  lightness,  and  mobility,  the  barbs  and  barbules 
knitting  the  more  flexible  parts  together,  so  that  they  do 
not  separate,  but  only  expand,  when  the  wing  is  unfolded. 
While  the  primary  purpose  of  wings  is  flight,  there  is 
quite  a  number  of  notable  exceptions.  A  concrete  exam- 
ple is  the  ostrich,  whose  wings  are  too  feeble  to  lift  it  from 
the  ground,  but  evidently  aid  the  great  fowl  in  running, 


Bird  Flight  187 

as  it  holds  them  outspread  while  it  skims  over  the  plain, 
perhaps  using  them  mainly  as  outriggers  or  balancing 
poles  in  its  swift  passage  on  its  stilt-like  legs.  The  penguins 
convert  their  wvngs  into  fins  while  swimming  through 
the  water,  the  feathers  closely  resembling  scales. 

There  are  birds  of  many  kinds,  and  therefore  a  great 
variety  of  wings  and  modes  of  flight.  Birds  with  short, 
broad,  rounded  wings,  with  the  under  surface  slightly 
concave  and  the  upper  surface  correspondingly  convex, 
usually  have  comparatively  heavy  bodies,  and  race 
through  the  air  with  rapid  wing-beats  and  rather  labored 
flight,  and  compass  only  short  distances.  Among  the  birds 
of  this  kind  of  aerial  movement  may  be  mentioned  the 
American  meadowlark,  the  bob-white,  and  the  pheasant. 
Other  species  propel  themselves  in  rapid,  gliding,  and 
continued  flight  by  means  of  long,  narrow,  and  pointed 
wings,  like  the  swifts,  swallows,  and  goatsuckers,  while 
many  others,  notably  herons,  hawks,  vultures,  and  eagles, 
are  distinguished  by  a  vast  alar  expansion  in  proportion  to 
their  weight,  and  hence  are  able  to  sustain  themselves  in 
the  air  by  sailing,  with  only  a  slight  stroke  at  rare  inter- 
vals. Such  birds  as  the  stormy  petrel  and  the  frigate- 
bird  have  wings  that  are  broad,  corvex,  and  of  great 
length  in  contrast  with  the  lightness  and  small  bulk  of 
their  bodies,  for  which  reason  they  are  able  to  sustain 
themselves  in  the  air  for  days  without  rest.  It  is  even 
thought  that  some  of  these  wonderful  birds  of  the  limitless 
ocean  sleep  on  the  wing,  though  how  such  an  hypothesis 
could  be  proved  it  would  be  difficult  to  say. 


1 88  Bird  Comrades 

Even  in  this  day  of  scientific  research  and  astuteness,  it 
must  not  be  supposed  that  everything  about  the  mechan- 
ics of  avicular  flight  is  understood.  We  may  readily 
comprehend  how  a  bird,  without  fluttering  its  wings,  can 
poise  in  the  air ;  but  how  can  it  move  forward  or  in  a  circle, 
and  even  mount  upward,  without  a  visible  movement  of 
a  pinion?  And  this  some  birds  are  able  to  do  without 
reference  to  the  direction  of  the  ethereal  currents.  -That, 
I  venture  to  say,  is  still  a  mystery.  It  almost  seems  as 
if  some  of  the  masters  of  aerial  navigation  in  the  bird 
world  were  gifted  with  the  ability  to  propel  themselves 
forward  by  a  mere  act  of  volition. 

An  interesting  article  on  the  subject  of  bird  flight 
appeared  not  long  ago  in  one  of  the  foremost  periodicals 
of  the  country,  a  part  of  which  is  here  quoted  to  show 
what  a  puzzling  problem  we  have  before  us: 

'  Recent  developments  in  aerial  navigation  have 
renewed  interest  in  the  comparative  study  of  the  mechan- 
ical principles  involved  in  the  flying  of  birds.  There  is 
one  exceedingly  puzzling  law  in  regard  to  birds  and  all 
flying  creatures,  the  solution  of  which  may  work  far- 
reaching  influences  in  the  construction  of  flying  craft. 

:'This  law,  which  has  thus  far  perplexed  scientists,  is 
that  the  heavier  and  bigger  the  bird  or  insect,  the  less 
relative  wing  area  is  required  for  its  support.  Thus  the 
area  of  wing  surface  of  a  gnat  is  forty-nine  units  of  area 
to  every  one  of  weight.  In  graphic  contrast  to  that,  a 
condor  (Sarcorhamphus  gryphns)  which  weighed  16.52 
pounds  had  a  wing  surface  of  9.80  square  feet.  In  other 


Bird  Flight  189 

words,  though  the  gnat  needs  wing  surface  in  a  ratio  of 
forty-nine  square  feet  per  pound  of  weight,  a  great  condor 
manages  to  sail  along  majestically  with  .59  of  a  square 
foot  to  at  least  a  pound  of  weight.  The  unexplained 
phenomenon  persists,  consistently  throughout  the  whole 
domain  of  entomology  and  ornithology.  Going  up  the 
scale  from  the  gnat,  it  is  found  that  with  the  dragon  fly 
this  ratio  is  30  to  i,  with  the  tipula,  or  daddy-longlegs, 
14.5  to  i,  the  cockchafer  only  5.15  to  i,  the  rhinoceros 
beetle  3.14  to  i. 

"Among  birds  the  paradoxical  law  that  the  smaller 
the  creature  the  bigger  the  relative  supporting  wings 
holds  good.  A  screech  owl  (Scops  zorcd)  weighing  one- 
third  of  a  pound  had  2.35  square  feet  of  wing  surface  per 
pound  of  weight.  A  fish  hawk  (Pandion  halicetus)  weigh- 
ing nearly  three  pounds  had  a  wing  area  of  1.08  square 
feet  to  each  pound.  A  turkey  buzzard  weighing  5.6 
pounds  had  a  little  less  than  one  square  foot  of  wing 
surface  to  each  pound.  A  griffon  vulture  (Gyps  fulvus) 
weighing  16.52  pounds  had  a  wing  surface  of  only  .68 
square  feet  to  the  pound. 

"  Students  of  aerial  navigation  who  are  devoting  much 
attention  to  observations  of  birds  say  that  if  the  peculiar 
law  governing  extant  flying  creatures  could  be  fathomed 
the  problem  of  human  flight  might  be  solved." 


A  BIRD'S  FOOT 

YOU  will  agree  with  me,  after  you  have  studied  a 
bird's  foot,  that  it  is  one  of  Nature's  most  won- 
derful  contrivances,    so   admirably   adapted  for 
the  purposes  to  which  it  is  devoted  that  one  cannot  help 
feeling  that  a  Divine  Mind  must  have  planned  it,  just  as 
a  man  would  make  a  watch  for  the  express  purpose  of 
keeping  time. 

But  what  is  properly  included  in  a  bird's  foot?  Here 
we  shall  have  to  correct  a  popular  mistake,  if  we  wish  to 
be  accurate,  in  the  scientific  sense  of  the  term.  Most 
people  think  that  the  avian  foot  consists  only  of  the  toes 
and  claws,  or  the  part  that  comes  in  direct  contact  with 
the  ground  or  the  perch.  That,  however,  is  an  error,  for  the 
foot  really  comprises,  in  addition  to  the  toes  and  claws, 
the  first  long  bone  of  the  limb,  reaching  from  the  base 
of  the  digits  to  the  first  joint.  You  will  see,  therefore, 
that  the  bird  walks  on  its  toes,  not  on  its  foot  as  a  whole. 

The  long  bone  referred  to  —  called  the  tarsus  - 
corresponds  to  the  instep  of  the  human  foot,  that  is,  the 
foot  proper,  while  the  joint  which  extends  backward, 
forming  an  angle  with  the  next  large  bone,  is  really  the 
bird's  heel.  Thus  you  perceive  that  most  birds  walk 
with  their  heels  high  in  the  air.  What  most  people  call 

190 


A  Bird's  Foot 

the  bird's  "leg"  is  in  reality  the  bird's  foot,  and  what 
they  call  its  "foot"  comprises  only  its  toes  and  claws. 

To  obtain  a  correct  idea  of  the  bird's  entire  walking 
apparatus,  we  begin  with  the  uppermost  part  of  the  leg. 
As  we  proceed,  it  would  be  well  to  keep  in  mind  the  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  human  leg  and  foot.  The  highest  bone 
is  called  the  thigh  bone  or  femur,  which  is,  for  the  most 
part,  enclosed  in  the  general  integument  of  the  body,  and 
is  not  entirely  separate  from  it  as  is  the  thigh  bone  of  the 
human  leg.  Among  carvers  it  is  known  as  the  "second 
joint."  It  reaches  forward  and  slightly  downward,  and 
is  hidden  under  the  feathers  of  the  body.  The  upper 
end  of  the  femur  enlarges  into  a  globular  head,  which  fits 
into  the  socket  of  the  hip  in  the  pelvis,  while  the  lower 
end  meets  another  long  bone,  which  extends  obliquely 
backward  and  downward  and  with  which  it  forms  the 
knee  joint. 

The  knee  of  the  bird  extends  forward,  as  the  human 
knee  does  when  it  is  bent.  By  means  of  various  nodules 
and  tendons  the  femur  is  articulated  with  and  fastened  to 
the  next  large  bone  at  the  knee  joint.  This  second  bone 
is  the  leg  proper,  called  in  scientific  language  the  crus. 
When,  with  its  thick,  palatable  flesh,  it  is  cooked  and 
placed  on  tfre  table,  it  is  known  as  the  "  drumstick"  -  a 
favorite  part  of  the  fowl  with  hungry  boys,  vying,  in 
their  minds,  with  the  "white  meat"  of  the  breast. 

This  important  segment  of  the  limb  is  composed  of 
two  bones,  the  larger  of  which  is  called  the  tibia,  the 
smaller  the  fibula.  At  its  lower  end  the  tibia  forms  what 


192  Bird  Comrades 

is  known  as  the  ankle  joint  by  articulating  with  the 
next  long  bone,  which  is  commonly  called  the  tarsus, 
although  the  proper  name  would  be  really  metatarsus. 
It  is  not  often  that  this  bone  is  covered  with  flesh,  and 
therefore  it  seldom  finds  its  way  to  the  table.  Properly 
speaking,  it  is  the  larger  part  of  the  bird's  foot,  reaching 
obliquely  upward  and  backward  from  the  roots  of  the  toes 
to  the  heel.  If  you  will  lift  yourself  upon  your  toes,  holding 
your  heels  in  the  air,  you  will  be  able  to  form  a  correct 
idea  of  what  the  bird  is  doing  whenever  it  stands  or  walks 
or  perches. 

The  toes  are  fastened  by  means  of  well  adapted  joints 
to  the  lower  end  of  the  tarsus,  and  form  what  is  popularly 
regarded  as  the  bird's  foot.  When  spoken  of  separately, 
these  toes  are  called  digits,  and  when  spoken  of  collect- 
ively, they  are  called  the  podium.  They  are  composed  of 
small  bones  called  phalanges  or  internodes,  which  are 
jointed'  upon  one  another  like  the  several  parts  of  the 
human  fingers.  The  digits  can  be  spread  out  for  walking 
purposes,  or  bent  around  so  as  to  clasp  an  object.  The 
outer  bone  of  each  digit  almost  always  bears  a  nail  or 
claw,  which  is  sometimes  very  strong  and  hooked,  as  is 
the  case  with  the  birds  of  prey,  while  in  other  species  it 
is  only  slightly  curved  and  is  not  meant  as  a  weapon 
of  offense  or  defense,  but  chiefly  to  enable  the  bird  to 
"  scratch  for  a  living." 

How  do  the  birds,  in  perching  and  roosting,  retain 
their  hold  so  long  on  a  limb  without  becoming  weary? 
They  do  not  need  to  make  a  conscious  effort  to  do  this, 


A  Bird's  Foot  193 

but  are  held  by  the  mechanical  action  of  certain  muscles 
and  tendons  in  the  leg  and  foot.  Of  course,  the  bird 
can  also  control  these  muscles  by  an  act  of  its  will,  but  a 
large  part  of  their  action  is  automatic.  In  some  species 
there  is  a  muscle  called  the  ambiens,  which  has  its  rise 
in  the  pelvis,  passes  along  the  inner  side  of  the  thigh, 
whence  its  tendon  runs  over  the  apex  of  the  angle  of  the 
knee  joint,  and  down  the  leg  till  it  joins  the  muscles  that 
flex  the  'toes.  Now  when  the  bird's  leg  is  bent  at  the 
joints,  as  is  the  case  in  perching,  the  tendons  of  this 
muscle  are  stretched  over  the  knee  and  ankle  joints,  thus 
pulling  the  digits  together,  and  causing  them  of  their 
own  accord  to  grasp  the  perch  more  or  less  tightly.  When 
a  bird  wishes  to  unloose  its  hold,  it  simply  rises  on  its  feet 
and  relaxes  the  tendons. 

All  birds  by  no  means  possess  this  particular  muscle, 
but  all  the  perchers  have  some  muscular  arrangement  in 
the  legs  and  toes  that  practically  answers  the  same  pur- 
pose. If  you  will  bend  your  wrist  backward  as  far  as 
you  can,  you  will  observe  that  your  fingers  will  have  a 
tendency  to  curve  slightly  forward.  This  is  caused  by 
the  stretching  of  the  tendons  over  the  convex  part  of  your 
bent  wrist  joints. 

The  typical  bird  has  four  digits,  three  in  front  and  one 
reaching  backward.  The  hind  toe  is  called  the  hallux, 
and  corresponds  to  the  thumb  of  the  human  hand,  so 
that  in  grasping  an  object  it  can  be  made  to  meet  any 
of  the  other  toes.  But  many  birds  are  not  provided  with 
a  quartet  of  digits.  The  ostrich  has  only  two,  the  inner 


194  Bird  Comrades 

and  hinder  toes  being  wanting.  However,  this  great  fowl 
does  not  experience  any  lack,  for  its  feet  are  almost  solid 
like  hoofs,  and  quite  flat,  and  hence  are  especially  adapted 
for  traveling  across  the  sandy  desert. 

No  bird  has  ever  been  found  with  more  than  four  toes ; 
and  four  seem  to  be  ample  for  all  purposes.  A  fifth  toe 
for  a  bird  would  be  as  useless  as  a  fifth  wheel  on  a  wagon. 
Quite  a  number  of  species  have  only  three  toes,  most  of 
them  among  the  walkers  and  waders,  and  none,  I  believe, 
among  the  true  perchers.  Take  the  plovers  and  sander- 
lings,  for  example,  which  spend  most  of  their  time,  when 
not  on  the  wing,  in  running  about  on  the  ground,  espe- 
cially along  the  seashore  or  the  banks  of  streams  and  lakes, 
and  seldom,  if  ever,  sit  on  a  perch  —  in  their  case  a  fourth 
toe  would  be  worse  than  a  superfluous  appendage;  it 
would  be  an  encumbrance,  dragging  along  in  the  mud 
and  mire.  In  these  species  it  is  the  hind  toe  that  is  lack- 
ing, their  three  digits  all  being  in  front,  where  they  are  of 
the  greatest  service.  There  is  another  class  of  birds  that 
have  hind  toes,  though  very  much  reduced  because  their 
owners  do  not  perch,  but  scuttle  about  on  the  beach.  This 
class  includes  the  little  spotted  sandpipers  which  you  often 
see  running  or  flying  along  the  shores  of  a  river  or  lake. 

Curious  to  tell,  several  species  of  woodpeckers  are  tri- 
dactyl — that  is,  three-toed — and  still  more  curious  is  the 
fact  that  in  their  case  the  true  hind  toe  is  lacking,  while 
the  outer  front  toe  is  bent  backward,  or  "reversed,"  as  it 
is  called,  and  is  thus  made  to  do  service  for  a  hind  toe. 
The  other  species  of  woodpeckers  have  four  toes,  two  in 


SPOTTED  SANDPIPER,  OR  "PEET-WEET" 
Actitis  macularia 

(One-half  natural  size) 


A  Bird's  Foot  195 

front  and  two  behind,  the  outer  one  of  the  latter  pair 
being  a  reversed  digit.  Why  some  of  the  woodpeckers 
should  have  four  toes  and  others  only  three  is  an  unsolved 
enigma,  and  is  especially  puzzling  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
the  four- toed  kinds  do  not  seem  to  possess  any  advantage 
over  their  cousins.  The  tridactyl  species  are  as  expert 
climbers  as  any  members  of  the  family,  and  are  extremely 
hardy  birds,  too,  some  of  them  dwelling  the  year  round 
in  cold  northern  climates,  where  the  food  question  must 
often  be  a  serious  one. 

Here  is  still  another  conundrum  for  the  bird  student : 
Why  do  the  four-toed  woodpeckers  have  two  hind  digits, 
despite  the  fact  that  they  always  clamber  upward  when 
they  take  their  promenades  on  the  boles  and  branches  of 
the  trees,  whereas  the  agile  little  nuthatch,  which  glides 
upward  or  downward,  as  the  impulse  moves  him,  has  only 
one  rear  toe  and  three  in  front,  like  the  true  perchers? 
Nor  is  it  less  puzzling  that  the  cuckoos,  which  are  perch- 
ing birds,  should  have  two  toes  in  front  and  two  behind. 
Then,  there  is  the  little  brown  creeper  which  never  perches 
and  is  forever  creeping,  creeping,  upward,  upward  —  save, 
of  course,  when  it  takes  to  wing  —  and  yet  its  toes  are 
arranged  in  the  normal  percher  style,  the  hind  digit  having 
an  especially  long,  curved  claw.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose 
that  all  the  problems  of  the  bird  world  have  been  solved. 

Look  at  the  different  kinds  of  birds'  feet  and  see  how 
wisely  they  have  been  planned  for  the  various  purposes 
to  which  they  have  been  applied.  In  order  that  a  bird 
may  use  his  feet  with  the  greatest  dexterity  in  perching 


196  Bird  Comrades 

and  flitting,  his  digits  should  be  as  free  and  movable  as 
possible ;  and  so  we  find  that  the  toes  of  the  perchers  are 
usually  cleft  to  the  base,  are  long  and  slender,  easily 
opened  and  closed,  and  possess  the  power  to  grasp  an 
object  firmly.  The  same  is  true  of  the  raptorial  birds, 
or  birds  of  prey,  which  are  strong  perchers  and  depend 
largely  for  their  food  supply  on  clutching  their  victims 
while  on  the  wing.  In  all  these  birds  the  hind  toe  is  also 
well  developed,  and  is  on  the  same  plane  as  the  anterior 
digits  —  a  wise  adaptation  of  means  to  ends. 

But  there  are  other  birds  whose  feet,  as  some  one  has 
said,  are  good  feet,  but  poor  hands  —  that  is,  they  are 
not  intended  for  prehensile  purposes,  only  for  walking 
and  wading.  Therefore,  in  these  birds  the  hind  toe  is 
small,  and  more  or  less  elevated  above  the  plane  of  the 
other  digits,  or,  as  has  already  been  said,  is  wholly  wanting 
The  feet  of  some  of  these  birds  are  partly  webbed,  so  that, 
if  necessary,  they  can  change  their  mode  of  locomotion 
from  running  and  wading  to  swimming.  Birds  whose 
feet  are  partly  webbed  are  said  to  be  semipalmated. 

This  introduces  us  to  that  interesting  group  of  birds 
whose  toes  are  connected  throughout  their  entire  length 
by  a  thin,  membranous  web.  Their  feet  are  said  to  be 
palmated.  We  can  readily  understand  why  they  are  thus 
formed,  for  their  webbed  feet  answer  the  purpose  of  oars 
to  propel  them  over  the  water.  Most  of  the  swimmers 
have  feet  of  this  kind.  Watch  them  glide  like  feathered 
craft  over  the  smooth  surface  of  the  stream  or  lake. 

When  a  swimmer  thrusts  his  foot  forward,  the  toes 


A  Bird 's  Foot  197 

naturally  drop  together  and  partly  close,  presenting  only 
a  narrow  front  —  almost  an  edge  —  of  resistance  to  the 
water;  then,  when  he  makes  a  backward  stroke,  the  toes 
spread  far  apart  and,  with  the  connecting  membranes,  are 
converted  into  a  broad,  propelling  oar.  Is  it  not  a  won- 
derfully wise  contrivance? 

Most  swimming  birds  have  only  the  front  toes  webbed, 
but  in  a  few  species,  like  the  pelicans,  even  the  hind  toe 
is  connected  with  its  fellows  by  means  of  such  a  mem- 
brane. Nor  must  we  forget  those  water  fowls  which, 
instead  of  palmated  feet,  have  what  is  called  the  lobate 
foot,  which  means  that  the  digits  have  broad  lobes  or 
flaps  on  their  sides.  While  in  such  cases  the  toes  are  all 
distinct,  the  expanded  lobes  serve  almost,  if  not  quite,  as 
good  a  purpose  for  propulsion  in  the  water  as  do  the  webs. 
The  coot  swims  almost  as  well  as  the  duck  or  the  goose, 
and  at  the  same  time  his  feet,  with  their  disconnected  toes, 
are  better  adapted  for  paddling  about  amid  the  water- 
grass  and  dense  weeds  than  if  they  were  webbed. 

The  birds  of  prey,  such  as  hawks,  owls,  and  eagles, 
have  large,  strong,  and  sharply  curved  talons  and  power- 
ful digits,  and  a  sad  use  they  make  of  them  in  clutching 
small  birds  and  animals.  The  claws  of  the  woodpeckers 
and  other  climbing  birds  are  stout  and  extremely  acute, 
just  as  they  should  be  for  clinging  to  the  bark  of  trees. 
In  short,  the  structure  of  a  bird's  foot,  whatever  may  be 
the  species  of  fowl,  furnishes  most  conclusive  evidence  of 
adaptation  in  the  world  of  Nature. 


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